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ishomieokay · 4 months ago

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And We Made You Pairs (Ch.1)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

✰ summary - Homelander’s mission in Syria puts him in direct conflict with Noura, an activist working to protect her country from foreign interference. Although their initial encounters are fraught with tension, over time they develop a begrudging respect for one another. Homelander is drawn to Noura’s fearlessness and conviction, while she catches glimpses of humanity in him.

When Noura’s town faces annihilation, Homelander must make a choice. Will he remain the military’s loyal wardog, or will he do something good for once in his life? ao3.

✰ warnings - blood and injury, violence, minor character death, war crimes, breaches of the Geneva Convention, mental health issues, intrusive thoughts.

✰ taglist - @discowizard88, @possiblyafangirl, @sacha1slytherin, @infinetlyforgotten, @redroserabbit. Let me know if you want to be tagged!

A crescent moon hung over Nineveh, casting long shadows across the empty streets. The night was cold, the air crisp. Only a distant hum disturbed the quiet, a low rumble that crept through the small town, growing increasingly louder. Military trucks were approaching. Sporadic bursts of gunfire could be heard, echoing out from an old warehouse downtown.

Homelander hovered above, his silhouette blending with the evening mist. His eyes scanned the building below, tracking the heat signatures of the people inside. For the moment, he remained out of sight, his cape softly rippling in the air. The rebels moved in disorganized patterns, panicking in their attempt to flee. The American troops, advancing under the cover of darkness, had caught them completely off guard. Homelander’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched.

“They always run,” he said to himself, his voice muffled by the blowing wind. He had seen it play out countless times before. Cornered, terrified, clinging to the hope that they could disappear into the endless maze of dirt roads and narrow alleys.

Without warning, he plummeted from the sky, cutting through the air like a knife. He landed with a bone-rattling crash, the ground cracking under his feet. Dust and debris rose outwards, and for a brief moment, the gunfire paused. It was only when the rebels recognized him that the screams began.

Homelander moved forward, striking with the precision of a living weapon. His heat vision flared, slicing through concrete and flesh without remorse. He could hear the panicked cries of the rebels as they scattered, desperately looking for shelter, but it was futile. They would not escape. He blasted through their makeshift defenses, leaving behind craters where men had stood moments ago.

The truth is, he reveled in it—the chaos, the fear, the raw power coursing through him. Here, in this forgotten corner of the world, he could unleash himself completely, without restraint. No cameras, no crowds to appease. Just pure, unfiltered violence. A part of him wished every mission could be like this. He grinned as a neighboring building crumbled, the blast turning it to a smoldering ruin.

He rounded a corner and tore down what remained of a wall, sending bricks and stone flying in all directions. Amid the wreckage, he spotted movement—a flash of color against the gray. A family cowered near the broken remains of their home. The mother used her body as a shield to protect her young son while her husband clutched her arms, trying to help them stand. At the sight of him, their faces contorted in terror. Homelander frowned. The boy held a stuffed animal, clinging to it as if it might protect him from the nightmare that had descended from the sky.

Homelander hesitated, his expression unreadable as he studied them. He could hear the woman’s labored breathing, the quick, shallow gasps of fear. The boy’s wide, unblinking eyes reflected the crimson glow of his heat vision, ready to burn at a moment’s notice.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Homelander said softly, almost to himself. It would be simple enough to end them, to leave no one behind to whisper of the horror that had come in the night. No witnesses meant no complications. It was standard procedure.

“Who’d believe you, anyway?” He said in the end, shrugging. He let the heat die down in his eyes and turned away, leaving them huddled within the collapsed ruins of the building. With a flick of his cape, he launched himself back into the air, allowing the fearful whispers to fade into the distance.

He tore through the rest of the town with brutal efficiency, leaving in his wake the echoes of crumbling buildings and the flare of explosions against the dark sky. By the time the last of the rebels fell, he was sweating and breathing hard, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. He paused for a moment. His gaze drifted across the shattered remains of Nineveh, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When he descended, the rest of his platoon had already re-grouped. “Howdy, boys? I think we’re done here. Couldn’t have asked for a better team,” he said, giving a cocky military salute. He wasn’t their leader — not really. That didn’t stop them from disregarding established hierarchies whenever Homelander tried to act as such, though. He gave them plenty of reasons to, every time they went out into the field.

“Go get some rest, and remember. You guys are the real heroes!”

Noura clutched the edge of her windowsill, her breath fogging the glass as she tried to distinguish what was happening outside. The air vibrated with the hum of distant helicopters, their rotors slicing through the dark. Explosions rumbled like distant thunder, making the building tremble beneath her feet. Each shockwave sent a jolt through her body, as if the earth itself recoiled from the violence tearing through Nineveh.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Through the thick veil of dust that clouded the streets, she could catch but glimpses of what transpired below. The normally quiet town was unrecognizable - plumes of smoke rose from collapsed roofs, decimated buildings, and burning vehicles. Cries of panic and the roar of falling debris reached her, mingling with the distant commands of soldiers as they spread through the town. Noura’s heart pounded in her chest, the amalgamation of sounds drowning out all rational thought.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye—a figure moving through the haze, swift and precise. It didn’t move like a soldier, didn’t duck or scramble for cover. It moved with purpose. Her breath hitched as she recognized the outline of a cape fluttering behind him, streaked with ashes and blood.

Homelander.

Noura’s fingers tightened on the windowsill until her knuckles turned white. She could make out his face now, framed by the flickering light of a nearby fire. His expression was cold, detached. He contemplated the street in silence, as if savoring the destruction he had wrought. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted—straight up to where she stood.

Noura’s pulse quickened, a wave of icy fear washing over her. She felt exposed, as if he could see right through the thin glass, past the shadows of her apartment, into the raw terror she tried to conceal. For a moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locked across the gulf of darkness and smoke that separated them.

Homelander’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered behind his eyes, a glimmer of curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a strange new creature he’d stumbled upon. It wasn’t the look of a man who saw a frightened civilian, but that of a predator, sizing up its prey.

Noura’s hands shook as she reached up to adjust her hijab, pulling the fabric tighter around her face. She didn’t know why she did it—some instinctive need to shield herself, to cover her fear beneath the familiar folds. Her fingers trembled against the cloth as she held his gaze, refusing to look away. Homelander gave her one last, long look. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and vanished into the shadows of an alley.

Noura’s legs gave away, and she stumbled back from the window, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. She could still see his face in her mind, the eerie calmness in his eyes as he surveyed the destruction around him. It was as if the suffering, the broken bodies, the cries for help—none of it mattered to him. He was above it all, merciless. Unrepentant.

Her fear gave way to a fierce, burning anger that clawed its way up her throat, making her want to cry and scream. She couldn’t afford to give in to that, though. Not now. The ground still shook with distant blasts, and she could hear the sounds of her neighbors outside, their voices rising in frantic shouts as they searched the rubble for survivors. Noura pushed herself to her feet, wiping away the tears she hadn’t realized were streaming down her cheeks. She grabbed a flashlight and rushed out of her apartment, her feet carrying her down the crumbling stairwell and into the street.

She joined the neighbors who had already begun to dig through the ruins. Their hands were bloodied and raw from pulling away debris. Noura felt the sting of blisters forming on her palms, but she ignored the pain. Instead, she focused on the weight of each broken stone, the sharp edges digging into her skin. She forced herself to keep moving, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

There, beneath the wreckage, she found the arm of a child reaching out. She pulled with all her strength, helped by another pair of hands—an elderly man, his face streaked with dust and ashes. Together, they freed the little girl, her cries muffled against Noura’s chest as she held her close.

Noura glanced back toward the shadows where Homelander had disappeared. Her mind replayed the memory of his cold eyes, the way he had looked at her—like she was nothing, like they were all nothing. She felt her resolve harden, settling like iron in her bones. He thought he could come here and destroy their homes without consequence. He thought he could hide behind that cape, pretend to be a hero while leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. Well, she wouldn’t let him.

“I will make them see,” she whispered to herself, cradling the little girl as she wept. “I will make the whole world see what you really are.”

Noura held onto that thought, clinging to it like a lifeline as the night wore on. It was her shield, her only weapon against the terror that still clawed at the edges of her mind. She wouldn’t let it consume her. She moved from one ruin to the next, her hands bloody and her heart burning with a new, unyielding purpose.

The first light revealed the full extent of the damage—streets filled with rubble, overturned vehicles smoldering in the distance, and crumbling buildings that sagged against each other like wounded giants. The mosque lay in ruins, its once proud minaret snapped in half like a twig. Smoke drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of ashes and blood, and Noura breathed it in, feeling the sting in her lungs.

She stood at the entrance of her apartment building, her legs trembling beneath her. Her brother, Amir, hovered beside her. His left arm was wrapped in a hastily applied bandage, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glanced at her with a frown. “We should leave. There’s nothing left for us here.”

Noura shook her head, hands clenching at her sides. “I’m staying. They need help.” She gestured to the street below, where families sifted through the wreckage, calling out names in a desperate search for their loved ones. The sound of a mother’s wail as she cradled a lifeless child in her arms cut through the air, sharp and raw. It dug into Noura’s chest, twisting with each breath she took.

Amir’s grip tightened on her shoulder, trying to pull her away. “You can’t help everyone. The buildings are crumbling, debris is falling all over the place. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Noura planted her feet, though, eyes glistening as she took in the shattered remains of the life they once knew. She remembered playing in the town square as a child, the taste of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner, the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer that had echoed through the streets every morning. Now, it was all gone, and only devastation remained.

Amir frowned, dropping his hand in defeat. He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly, stepping back. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t do anything reckless.”

“I’ll be fine.” Noura forced a smile, though it felt like a lie.

With a final, reluctant glance, Amir turned and disappeared up the stairs. Noura took a deep breath and walked down the cracked steps, the morning sun casting her shadow long across the dirt road.

As she made her way downtown, she noticed neighbors and acquaintances clustered together in the remnants of their properties. Shattered windows and tumbling walls stretched as far as the eye could see. An old man dug through the rubble with his bare hands, voice hoarse from calling out a name that had gone unanswered. A woman with bloodied feet limped past, clutching a baby to her chest, eyes unseeing.

Noura stopped to offer water and food to those she could. She tore strips of fabric from her own clothes to bandage wounds, wrapping them around arms and legs as gently as possible. With each face she saw, each sob that reached her ears, her resentment only grew. At the main square, people whispered—murmurs about the events of the night before. The stories passed from one person to another like a disease, carrying awe, fear, and bitterness.

“They say he flew down like a devil, tearing through buildings with his bare hands,” an elderly woman whispered, her lips trembling. “It wasn’t human. Nothing human could do that.”

Another man, his voice strained from the fumes he had inhaled, shook his head with disappointment. “They call him a hero back in America. What kind of hero burns down entire towns? What kind of hero leaves children to die under the rubble?”

Noura pulled out her phone. Her grip around it was awfully tight as she recorded what little was left of her neighborhood. She filmed the collapsing mosque, the dilapidated houses, the faces of wandering pedestrians who had lost everything. Her voice wavered as she narrated, words catching in her throat. “This… this is what the American army does in Syria,” she said, forcing herself to keep her hands steady as she panned the camera across the ruins.

She turned the phone toward herself. “They are not here to protect us,” Noura said into the lens. “They are here to destroy and conquer. The world needs to know what happens when foreign powers bring their war to our doorstep. What happens when their heroes come to save us.”

She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. She couldn’t afford to break down, not now. Not while there was so much that needed to be done. She had to keep moving, keep recording. Anything to take her mind off of everything she had lost. If she couldn’t save her home, she could at least make sure the world wouldn’t forget it.

As she lowered the phone, her thoughts returned to the figure she had seen the night before—Homelander, standing in that dark alley like a monster cloaked in red and blue. A shiver ran through her, but she pushed it aside. Instead, she let her anger steady her. It didn’t matter how powerful he was, or how many people labeled him a hero in the west. She would make sure that he, and everyone like him, answered for what they had done.

A makeshift shelter had been set up in the center of the town square—a temporary refuge built from salvaged tarps and metal beams that had survived the onslaught. As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and the survivors huddled together for warmth. Their breath misted in the cool night air, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps.

Aid workers moved through the crowd, handing out what little food they had left—small packets of dried bread and canned beans. The lines stretched far, though. The children near the back clung to their mothers’ skirts, already suspecting they would go to bed hungry.

Noura sat cross-legged on the cold ground, her hands stained with blood as she wrapped a clean bandage around a man’s arm. He winced but gave her a grateful nod, clutching his injured limb to his chest. Beside her, Fatima knelt with her head bowed, carefully stitching up a gash on a woman’s leg.

They worked in silence for a while, the sounds of the shelter—muffled whispers, the occasional sob—filling the space between them. Noura glanced at her friend, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled with exhaustion. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fatima beat her to it.

“Are you really going to do it, Noura?” Fatima’s voice was barely a whisper, but the fear in it was unmistakable. She glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting one of the soldiers patrolling the town to appear out of the shadows. “All this talk about protesting, about filming… it’s dangerous.”

Noura set down the bandages and wiped her hands on her clothes. “And what do you want me to do, Fatima? Pretend like this never happened? Pretend that they didn’t come here and tore apart our homes, our lives?” Her voice was harsh, and she forced herself to soften it. It was not Fatima she was angry at. “If we don’t speak up, no one will know the truth. We can’t let them turn us into ghosts.”

Fatime flinched at the bitterness in her words, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she fixed Noura with a pleading look, her eyes glistening in the dim light. “I just… I don’t want to lose you too,” she said softly. “You’re the only family I have left.”

Noura reached out, squeezing Fatima’s hand tightly. “I know, habibti. But I can’t stay quiet anymore. I just can’t.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “They think they can come here, kill our people, and proclaim themselves heroes. They think no one will care because we’re just another war-torn town. But I’m going to make them care. I’m going to make sure the world sees what they’ve done.”

Fatima sighed, dropping her head. “I’m scared for you, Noura.”

“I’m scared too,” Noura admitted, but there was steeliness in her voice. “But I’m more afraid of what will happen if we don’t do anything.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, listening to the rustle of the wind against the makeshift walls of the shelter. A shadow fell over them, and Noura looked up to see Rami Haddad, his expression grim beneath his unkempt beard. The local journalist had been a fixture in Nineveh for as long as she could remember, but the past months had hardened him—made him quieter, more cautious.

“Noura” he said, nodding to her before glancing at Fatima. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?”

Fatima looked between them, worry etched into her face, but she simply nodded and rose to her feet, giving Noura’s shoulder a squeeze before slipping away. Rami took her place on the ground, his gaze sweeping over the wounded around them. “You’re really going through with this, then?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of concern. “The protest in Damascus. The footage. You know they won’t take kindly to it.”

Noura pulled a small, battered phone from her pocket, the screen cracked but still functional. She held it out to him, showing him the videos she had taken—scenes of collapsed buildings, grieving families, the wreckage that had once been their homes. “I need the truth to get out, Rami. I need people to know that Vought’s heroes aren’t saviors—they’re executioners.”

Rami studied the footage in silence for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. He glanced back at Noura, at those big brown eyes, full of determination. His expression softened. “I’ll help you get the footage out,” he said. “And I’ll spread the word about the protest. But you have to understand, Noura, once this gets out… there’s no going back. You’ll be putting a target on your back, on all our backs.”

Noura met his gaze without hesitation. “I know the risks, Rami. I just feel like… I have no other choice.”

He let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “Alright then. Just… be careful. It’s not just the Americans. The world isn’t kind to people who try to tell the truth.”

She managed a small, tired smile, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “It’s never been kind to us, Rami. But that’s not going to stop me.”

Rami gave her a long, searching look, then nodded. “I’ll reach out to my contacts in Damascus. We’ll make sure this gets seen.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Stay safe, Noura. What you’re doing is dangerous, I won’t lie. It’s going to take some guts, so you better be ready.”

Noura nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle on her shoulders. She knew the path she had chosen wasn’t easy. As Rami disappeared down the street, she turned her gaze back to the people huddled in the shadows of the shelter. Her resolve hardened like steel beneath her skin. They had survived the night. Now, it was time to fight for the days to come.

A military base loomed just outside Nineveh, a fortress of steel and concrete surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Inside there was a different world—clean walkways, neatly aligned vehicles, and soldiers laughing over trays of scrambled eggs and hot coffee. The air buzzed with the hum of machinery and the distant thump of helicopters on patrol.

In a sleek, sterile briefing room deep within the base, Homelander stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on a large digital map projected onto the wall. General Mark Thompson, a broad-shouldered man with a silver buzzcut and a perpetually stern frown, paced in front of the screen.

“Hell of a job, Homelander. Hell of a job,” Thompson said, his voice carrying the gravelly timbre of someone used to shouting orders across battlefields. He tapped a spot on the map where the town was located. “You took out the core of their operations in one night. This is the kind of show of force that keeps the locals in line—lets them know who’s in charge.”

Homelander nodded, his chest swelling slightly with the praise. He felt the warmth of Thompson’s words seeping into him, a balm for his own bruised ego after the recent dip in his popularity back home. “Just doing what needed to be done, General,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “Can’t have those supervillains thinking they can run wild under our noses.”

“Exactly,” Thompson said. his mouth twisting into a thin smile. He folded his arms across his chest, the rows of medals on his uniform catching the light. “Of course, there were… some unfortunate casualties among the locals. But you know how it is—collateral damage. Sometimes you gotta make necessary sacrifices. We’ll handle any reports that come out. Our PR team’s already spinning the narrative. You’ll come out of it looking like the hero you are.”

Homelander took a moment to absorb the words. Slowly, he nodded along. “Good. It’s important that people back home see the bigger picture. They need to know we’re making progress out here.”

“Don’t worry, son. We’ve got your back.” Thompson gave a curt nod, dismissing him with a firm pat on the shoulder. “Now, go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

The general turned his attention back to the map. Homelander walked out of the briefing room, still smiling faintly as he basked in the aftermath of the old General’s praise. It felt good to finally be appreciated. As the door slid shut behind him, the chill of the air-conditioned hallway pressed in, though, and the emptiness beneath the accolades began to gnaw at him. It was too quiet. He needed a moment away from the base’s antiseptic order. Homelander wandered down a narrow corridor, finding a quiet corner by one of the windows that overlooked the desert beyond.

The glass pane reflected his image back at him—a tall, imposing figure clad in a red and blue suit, still speckled with traces of blood he hadn’t bothered to wash off. He stared at his own eyes, at the hardness of his expression, and felt the familiar pull in the back of his mind.

“Sloppy,” a voice drawled, low and mocking. Homelander’s reflection in the glass twisted, just slightly, into a smirk that didn’t match his own. “Letting them see you like that. But then again, you liked it, didn’t you? The cries, the horror. Watching them beg and squirm, knowing there’s nothing they can do to stop you.”

Homelander’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He glanced around, ensuring no one else was in earshot, before he muttered under his breath, “They should be thanking me. Those rebels would’ve torn this place apart if I hadn’t stepped in.”

The smirk in the glass grew sharper. “Keep telling yourself that, hot shot. But we both know the truth, don’t we?” The voice was soft, oozing with smug certainty. “You enjoy this. The power, the fear in their eyes… It’s the only thing that makes you feel alive, isn’t it?”

Homelander’s lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to give voice to his nagging doubt. He turned his gaze back out to the endless stretch of desert, where the sun beat down on the unforgiving landscape. The silence between him and the voice in his head stretched, thick with tension, before he forced a dismissive chuckle.

“They need me. The locals, the military, even Vought. None of them could do this without me,” he muttered, as if saying it aloud might make it truer. The voice, his own and yet not, merely scoffed in response.

“They need you… or they’re afraid of you?” It let the question hang in the air, taunting, cutting deeper than Homelander cared to admit. “It’s all a lie, Johnny. A show you put on. It was back home, and it still is now. You know better than anyone that there were no supervillains in that town.”

He took a slow, deliberate breath, pushing away the flicker of doubt, the hint of something he was yet to put a name to. He wasn’t some ordinary man—he was the Homelander. Untouchable, superior. He had a job to do, a role to play, and he wouldn’t let anyone—especially not a voice in his own head—undermine him.

And yet, as he stared out at the desert beyond the base’s pristine walls, the weight of its words lingered.

The underground café was hidden beneath the shell of a bombed-out building, its entrance barely discernible behind a sagging metal door. Inside, the air was thick with the tang of cigarette smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. Shadows clung to the corners, where the locals huddled over tables, whispering about the latest military movements, exchanging fragments of news from the outside world. A dim bulb swung overhead, casting restless light across their faces.

Noura sat across from Rami at a rickety table near the back. His camera lay between them, battered and scratched, his loyal companion in the pursuit of countless war stories. Rami’s face was drawn, his usual wry smile absent as he listened to Noura lay out her plan. Her fingers traced invisible lines on the table as if sketching out her vision on the scarred wood.

“Next week, there’s going to be a press conference in Damascus. It'll be the first time the Syrian government meets with a high level US delegation in years,” Noura said, her voice low but firm. “The eyes of the world will be on us. That’s when we need to stage the protest.”

Rami’s brow furrowed, and he took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the dim light. He exhaled, the smoke curling upward, mingling with the heavy air. “Damascus is a whole different beast, Noura. It’s not like here. You make noise in the capital, and everyone comes down on you, hard. Our government and the Americans might be at each other’s throat more often than not, but there’s one thing they have in common. They don’t like troublemakers.” He paused, studying her with a critical eye. “You know what happens to those who attract too much attention.”

Noura met his gaze, unflinching. “I know the risks, Rami. But I can’t stay silent. If we don’t speak up, they’ll bury everything—our stories, our town, our lives. They’ll rewrite history while we’re still living it.”

Rami sighed, scratching his forehead. He glanced around the café, where faces turned away from the mere mention of protests. “It’s not just your life you’re risking, Noura. If you do through with this, it won’t just be you they come for.”

“That’s why I need your help. You’ve seen what they did to us. You have the proof, the footage. If we can get this out there, we might have a chance. We might be able to make people care.”

Rami’s eyes softened. There was something like admiration in his gaze, but also skepticism. “All right,” he relented, snuffing out his cigarette in a cracked ashtray. “I told you I’d help and I will. But we do this my way. No reckless speeches, no big signs with your face on them. We’re trying to make noise, but we have to do it carefully.”

Noura nodded, grateful for even this reluctant agreement. They sat in silence as she edited the footage on her phone, translating the Arabic words into English subtitles. Her hands shook slightly as she added the final frames—a shot of the town square, reduced to rubble, followed by a close-up of a child’s doll half-buried in the dirt, one eye missing. She took a deep breath, mildly uncomfortable as she watched a recording of herself speaking into the camera.

“We are not terrorists,” she said, eyes red and face stained with ashes. “We are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. And we are not going to disappear.”

She posted the video online, her fingers hesitating for only a moment before hitting ‘upload’. Rami watched her with a grim expression, knowing that with this one action, there was no turning back. Noura stared at her phone, feeling her pulse quickening as the video began to circulate. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. She knew that this could be the moment that changed everything—or that it might just be another cry drowned out in the endless noise of war.

The notification chime echoed in the silence, and her heart leapt. It had begun.

The street was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the dull glow of a flickering lamppost. Dust swirled in the night breeze. It was late, and they were the only patrons left in the café. Rami hunched over his laptop, his face illuminated by the screen’s cold light. His fingers flew across the keys, uploading photos and videos of the attack onto his social media platforms.

Noura sat beside him, her own phone in hand, scrolling through the footage she had taken earlier. Her thumb hesitated over the screen, pausing on an image of the collapsed minaret, its broken spire reaching pitifully toward the sky. She swallowed hard, staring at the twisted metal and shattered stone.

“I like this shot,” she murmured, holding her phone out for Rami to see. “We can lead with this. The mosque… they’ll understand what that means, right?”

Rami glanced up, shaking his head slightly. “Not necessarily. It’ll hit hard in Muslim countries, but in America? They’ll call it propaganda. They’ll try to twist it.”

Noura’s jaw clenched. “Let them. The truth is out there now. It’s up to the world to decide what to do with it.”

As Rami continued his work, the café fell into a tense silence, broken only by the baristas cleaning and picking up plates, the distant hum of generators powering the few buildings that still had electricity. Noura’s focus drifted, her mind replaying what happened the night before—Homelander’s blood-soaked figure against the moonlight, the way his eyes had met hers, unflinching, unfeeling. A shiver ran down her spine, and she hugged herself against the chill.

She glanced towards the window, and her breath caught in her throat. On a nearby rooftop, barely visible in the dim light, a figure stood silhouetted against the starless sky. Her heart lurched, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin. It was him. She was sure of it. Watching her, like some monstrous guardian or a predator biding its time.

“Rami��” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She reached out, clutching his arm. “Look—up there—”

When she looked again, the rooftop was empty, though. The figure, if it had ever been there at all, had vanished into the darkness.

Rami followed her gaze, frowning. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

She shook her head, trying to steady her breathing. “Nothing. I… I thought I saw something.”

Rami studied her for a moment, concern furrowing his brow. “Fear can play tricks on the mind, especially at times like this. Danger seems to lurk at every corner. It’s a hazard of the profession,” he said, offering a tight, reassuring smile. “Come on, we’ll be done soon. Then you can go home and rest.”

Noura nodded, though her thoughts remained on the empty rooftop, and the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest refused to fade. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, leaning over Rami’s shoulder as they reviewed the final uploads. Each image, each frame, was another weapon in their growing arsenal.

As they finished, the weight of what they had done settled between them. The air in the café felt colder. Noura slipped her phone into her pocket.

“Stay safe, Rami,” she said. “We need to be careful.”

“You too, Noura. We’ll meet again soon, when it’s time for the next step.”

They parted ways. Rami disappeared into the shadows of the alleys, his footsteps muffled by the dust. Noura lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where she had seen the figure. Was it just her imagination, or had she really glimpsed a presence up there, watching her?

She pushed the thought aside, though her unease clung to her like a second skin. The real fight was just beginning, and there was no time for fear.

#homelander #the boys #homelander fanfic #homelander fanfiction #the boys fanfiction #antony starr #my babygirl #the boys fanfic #homelander x oc #homelander x you #homelander x reader #fine i'll create my own content #homelander x y/n #homelander x muslim oc #homelander x arab oc #and we made you pairs

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fandom-smutty-shots · 4 months ago

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Summary: Reader is asked to wait in a room, and gets a surprise visit from Homelander when she does.

Warnings: Oral(f receiving), rough sex, daddy kink, and well Homelander is a warning in and of itself.

Word Count: 2.1k

You were nervous. Ashley had asked you to wait in the meeting room, somewhere you had never been before. You stood nervously, tapping a finger against the desk, wondering if you were about to get fired. You couldn't think of anything you had done, but the longer you waited, the more you could feel yourself sweat.

After what felt like an eternity, the doors slid open, and to your surprise, the Homelander walked through. Alone.

"(Y/n)!" Homelander exclaimed, that beautiful smile plastered across his face. "Glad to see you could make it."

"H-homelander, sir," you stuttered, confusion evident in your tone. "I'm so sorry sir, I don't know-"

He was in front of you in an instant. Gosh he moved so gracefully, he was a literal god standing before... well, you. You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out, the shock of being so close making your heart race.

"You're so nervous, (Y/n)." He raised his gloved hand and held the side of your face, the touch making you melt. "Just relax."

"I'm sorry sir, I just, um, I have no idea-"

Homelander interrupted you again with a finger to your lips. He stroked you, that smile fading as he spoke. "You know the best part of being me?"

You shook your head, feeling a loss of words as his other hand wrapped around the small of your back and pulled you closer.

"I can smell when women want to fuck me."

Your eyes went wide and you stumbled back, or at least tried to before Homelander's impossible strength caught you and held you in place, right against him.

"I'm so so so sorry sir," you apologized, unsure how to respond to his accusation. The closer he got, the more your body betrayed you as your core heated up. You couldn't deny you were attracted to him, the thought of someone so powerful even knowing you existed was just... thrilling.

"Don't apologize." Homelander's hand travelled around your back before resting on your ass, giving you a gentle squeeze. "I like what I see too."

You felt your cheeks heat up, and you were positive he could smell the sweat coming off you. It had been a long time since anyone had touched you, and now here you were, in the dream of every American girl - having a supe give you attention.

The hand on your face pushed into your lips, forcing them open as Homelander slid a finger into your mouth, the texture of his gloves on your tongue. You closed your eyes and let him explore you, the thought of another body part going in there sending a pool of liquid between your legs.

"You're so flustered," Homelander teased, the hand on your ass roaming down to your bare legs. Of course you had worn a skirt today, and his gloves against your inner thighs made you shudder. He took his finger away from your desperate mouth so you could answer.

"It's um," you stopped, your voice quiet. "I haven't um... nobody has... not in a long time..."

Homelander only chuckled. "You like your vibrator a lot, I know. I've seen you."

Your eyes widened in embarrassment, unsure where he could have possibly seen you. You've never done anything at work, only in the safety of your bedroom. You hated people seeing you cum, your entire body would shake with pleasure.

"I've noticed you for a while, (Y/n). You're shy and seemingly so innocent... until your legs are in the air while you're calling your poor vibrator 'daddy'." He laughed at his own observation, and you felt humiliated tears prick your eyes. That was supposed to be private.

"Um..." You knew your entire face was red, and you were acutely aware of his hand sliding up your skirt.

"It's okay, sweet (Y/n). I'm going to show you the difference between a little toy and a god." Homelander's fingers found your underwear and gave you the slightest stroke, and you knew your body was betraying you when his face lit up. "You're soaking and I haven't even started... take off your clothes for daddy."

You froze as he took his hands off you and stepped back, clearly waiting for you to obey.

"I, um, are you sure?" You asked, confused and humilated all in the same breath.

Homelander didn't answer, he just raised his eyebrow. You began unbuttoning your shirt, but had trouble at the very first one, your fingers too sweaty to get a good hold on the button. You muttered an apology, but in an instant he was on you, and you heard the tear of fabric and the clatter of buttons against the floor.

"Oh," was all you could manage. This made him smirk, and your skirt and panties were the next to go. At least he didn't rip those, was all you could think. Finally, your bra was unclasped and discarded, and you stood there with the world's strongest hero towering over your naked body - the heels on your feet useless to help your height.

Homelander, however, didn't strip anything. He didn't even take off his gloves before he was on you again, hoisting your legs up to lay you on the table.

You didn't speak as he lowered himself to your breasts, taking one in his mouth and circling his tongue. The bud hardened in his mouth and you let out a whimper, his hand coaxing the other out. He stayed there, sucking and nipping both breasts back and forth until you felt the stickiness on your thighs.

"There she is. I don't even have to look to know you're ready to take me." Homelander returned to your breast with his mouth, but his hands dipped down between your thighs, first forcing them apart and then going right for your heat. Your eyes rolled back as he slowly made his way toward your clit, the texture on his gloves making you buck as he finally touched you.

"Oh fuck," you let a moan escape, his finger circling the edges, almost giving you what you needed. You closed your eyes and leaned back on your hands, afraid if you looked, the dream would end.

"(Y/n)."

Your eyes snapped open as he pulled his hand and mouth away.

"You will look me in the eyes while I make you cum." Homelander's voice was commanding, but the only response you could manage was a nod. To your surprise, he fell to his knees, his breath so close it made you shiver in pleasure. "Now beg your daddy to eat you out. Beg me to show you what nobody else can."

You hesitated only for a second, but the breath alone was enough to drive you into delirium. "Please, daddy, please please please put your tongue on my clit daddy please," your voice was pitiful as you begged him to please you. You would do anything just for one flick of his tongue.

That was all the encouragement he needed to dive in, the saliva on his tongue mixing with your wetness. In only a second you realized this was nothing like what a man could do. No human could lick in the quick, decisive pattern he did, not up and down but across, followed with circles that made you cry out for your daddy to keep going.

You had never come from head before. It took you too long, men got tired before you could even get close to finishing. But in two minutes flat, Homelander licked you to the edge. Your eyes watered in pure delight, the sounds coming from your throat more animal than human.

But what drove you over was when his finger slid inside you, the thickness of the textured glove hitting the spot inside as well as his relentless tongue. He didn't need to breathe or stop or do anything only make you cum.

And fuck did you cum. You were pretty sure the entire tower heard your screams, your hands tearing into Homelander's perfect hair, a pitiful attempt to hold him in place as he licked and touched you through the most intense orgasm you had ever had. You met his eyes as you came, those beautiful blue orbs staring up at you while you came undone.

It was too much pleasure, too much at once and you tried to pull Homelander's hair to get his tongue off you. With a chuckle he stood, but continued to gently stroked your insides, even as you begged him to give you just a second.

"You better learn to take it, (Y/n). We're only getting started." His tone was husky, if you didn't know better you would have thought he wanted you just as bad as you needed him.

"D-daddy, daddy I came," you whimpered, throwing your arms over his shoulders to try and get some balance. His free hand held your waist, keeping you upright on the table while his other kept fucking you, not caring that you needed a break.

"Oh I know my little girl. Now you're gonna do it again." Homelander forced another finger inside, the sudden entrance making you gasp. It only hurt for a moment while you adjusted, and you knew he was trying to stretch you out for... whatever was between his legs.

When his thumb began massaging your already sensitive clit, it didn't take long for another orgasm to build. You felt yourself grinding against his hand, begging him for more, begging him to lick you again. But Homelander would only use his hand this time, drawing out your orgasm as he watched your facial expressions.

"No, daddy, I'm gonna-" you cried out as you got closer again, and this time he lifted you off the table with one arm and began roughly kissing you. You could barely kiss back as the rising tide once again took over your stomach, the need for release taking over anything else. You were in the fucking air, he was holding you up as if you were weightless and still fucking you with his other hand. It was impossible, it was something you only dreamed about.

You accidentally bit down on his lip as you came, your eyes rolling back and your entire body shuddering with the waves of pleasure.

You don't know how long you stayed there, cumming mid-air, before you finally came back to reality.

"That was a good one little girl. I think you're ready to take me now." Homelander gently flipped you around and laid you against the table, your ass on full display. You heard him unbuckle and move some fabric around, and then you felt him line up against your entrance.

You weren't ready. You had just cum twice, you couldn't handle- "OH FUCK!" That was you, you screamed out as he slowly pushed inside, your walls fighting his girth and begging you to take a break.

"Good girl, take daddy's cock. I'll do it nice and slow for you." To his credit, he pumped almost painfully slow for the first few minutes, even as you adjusted and the pressure turned to earth-shattering pleasure.

As you started to moan with each thrust, he went faster, and you swore he was going deeper and deeper. You could only let out animal-like sounds as Homelander fucked you, his hands so tight on your hips you were sure he would leave bruises. Your hands gripped the table as he went in and out, and in and out, and in and out.

You couldn't breathe, you couldn't think, you could only lie there and take it as your body was torn apart by his violent fucking.

He reached one hand around your front and began toying with your sensitive clit, the added stimulation making you cum on his dick almost instantly. You felt yourself tighten around him, and you heard him gently talk you through your orgasm, but he only sped up as he got closer to his. You needed a break, your body felt like jello and you didn't even know what was happening anymore - and then suddenly, he pulled out, and you felt thick liquid spread all over your back and ass.

"Good girl, you're daddy's good girl," Homelander managed to get out as he came on you, clearly in another world himself.

You were too stunned to move, too tired to do anything but sink to the floor as his hands stopped supporting you.

A few minutes must have gone by before Homelander patted your hair. "I'll come to your apartment tonight. I'm sending Ashley in to clean you up and get you a change of clothes." There was a pause before he finished. "But don't forget you belong to me now."

And so he walked out, leaving you naked and shaking and alone on the floor of a very public meeting room.

#homelander #homelander fanfic #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #homelander x reader insert #homelander x reader smut #homelander x reader lemon #daddy homelander x reader #daddy homelander x reader smut #the boys #the boys reader insert

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plasticfangtastic · 1 year ago

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American Royalty. Ch. 7

A Homelander X F! Reader/dadlander fanfic

A/N: if ya like to be included in the taglist plz leave a request comment, prev. chapters can be found in my pin post and the link below... i'll be updating my pin post after chapter 8 or 9 so they're not so scattered-- thanks to all readers hope y'all like it. I have officially finished writing this story so I should be posting them more regularly.

tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, OC characther, child neglect, dadlander, romance, toxic relationship... a bit of spicy in this chapter.

Chapter Seven

Sharp.

One of the men who looked to be a scientist– and who seemed completely detached from the situation, caught your attention.

“The V. Homelander.” he said, hiding his irritation poorly.

“The kid returned them to me. I left them at the gymnasium. Dropped some. The matter is sorted.” He spat, not giving him a second look, his gaze solely focused on you.

The man swallowed heavily slowly turning towards you, as you stared blankly back at him you noticed the chubby man had been carrying your daughter's sparkly backpack.

“Your daughter. I need to speak to her.” He said hastily.

“You don’t need to” Homelander blocked his vision, standing between you two enraged that he wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Is… Is okay…” Your hands were shaking as you pushed him out the way– my daughter did something really wrong…” You turned to Nigel, your voice wavering as you tried to muster the courage to speak– I am so sorry… I… I’m sorry” You choked.

You had no choice but to take her out of Vought, you knew you could never dream of paying off whatever damages your daughter had incurred on your name, V had to cost a couple hundred-thousands to millions if you had to take a guess, and whatever strange feelings you had a second ago were buried deep with the violent onslaught of anxiety assaulting you– you knew you would be back on the streets if not in jail by the end of the week.

You clutched at your hands feeling your whole body trembling, a sudden jolt traversing across your body as Homelander wrapped an arm across your shoulders trying to contain your relentless shivering, his far away voice told you to take a deep breath, whispering to you words that your ears didn’t quite catch, patiently instructing you to tranquilize to no avail.

“Your daughter, she wrote this.”

The man mustered all his bravery to take a notepad out of her backpack and approach you with it not caring that Homelander was holding you posessively, you looked up towards the item, taking it in your hand– lots of formulas and calculations, her handwriting blocky and messy, but every page was filled with more and more things that you could frankly not decipher– it might as well been hieroglyphics.

“Sorry I don’t understand this.” You were hesitant to hand it back.

“Your daughter managed to do this!.” He went to a particular page of the pad, flicking it in your hands– this… this is a revised version of a new product we had been developing… a new version of V… Your daughter is not in trouble… quite the opposite we would like to extend an olive branch– am so sorry security handled this so poorly.”

Both you and Homelander had matching expressions, both confused as to these sudden changes.

Nigel gasped in relief as Elmo came running towards his father dragging Helena behind him. The man could have hit the child if you weren’t there, he took his son in one swift sweep, holding him tight trying not to sound upset as he kissed him, looking down to find Helena panting behind, the kid hugged his father but didn’t cry– simply turning to see if Helena was still there.

“Don’t look at me like that.” She replied before the kid rolled his eyes– those guns were loaded y’know.”

“Won’t hurt me” The kid muttered– hurt you lots tho.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, before finally acknowledging your existence. Peeking at the mess around her and the decapitated head on the other end of the hallway that Elmo completely ignored, she bit her cheek letting a loud ‘Tch’ spit out.

“Before you scream at me– The chump had nothing to do with it, I simply asked for his services in exchange for candy. Second…” A bubble pop above her hand dropping a half-used vial of Compound V– here” She threw at the scientist.

“Is almost empty!”

“I used it, duh” She wasn’t apologetic in the least– now you can scream at me.” she gestures to you to procceed.

You dropped on your knees pulling her into your arms in a vicious and desperate embrace, your heart beating so hard she could feel it thumping against her white sweater, you tried not looking at the empty stare of the decapitated head on the other side of the hall… it was your fault that man had died, you thought. Yet you were glad Homelander had killed him. Glad he had done one right thing for her.

“You have a lot of explaining to do.” Homelander said without actually caring, he was glad to see her unharmed, seeking for any scuff marks or bruises with his X-Ray vision.

Your daughter looked at the scientist then at her belongings.

“I fixed it… your C.V24… in theory of course. Technically you were on the right track with V25 but my formula should reduce the side effects by 76% percent not 67%… would be down to 85% if I had more time.” She strokes your back in circular motions to fake reassurance– sorry for acting like a kid… I did a stupid.”

The man clenched his jaw then looked back at the notes, the formula in theory could be the pathway to finding a solution to all their troubles, Homelander mouth dropping in disbelief.

“What do you mean you fixed it?” He asked.

“Your original formula is a death trap… a shit dilution of V– all bark no bite… your stabilizing was the issue… V is a beast with a mind of its own… even your current serum is a mess… you could even program it to dictate a power if your men used their brains for once– so I decided to do that… now Elmo can fly.”

Nigel's eyes widened.

“You… You experimented on your friend?” You asked, your voice scratchy and hoarse.

Your daughter's eyes blip blue as she gives you a discomforting smile, you didn’t know if you should hold her or take a step away.

“I was thinking of administering the new serum as a pill or like an LSD sticker.” She wriggled away from you and towards Elmo as his father took a step away from those shimmering blue eyes– show him Elmo.”

Elmo nodded obediently with a light push he wiggled upwards and floated close to the ceiling.

“I was aiming for laser or pyrokinesis but again I only had a couple weeks to come out with the formulas… had I had more time.” she grumbled.

“You gave him V25?” Homelander asked, plucking the kid by the leg down to eye level– how…?”

“Nah I gave him my new V serum… I gave it to him like two hours ago… I was working on the V.C 26 on paper but I was messing with V… altho if the mices I worked with are any indication– he might still explode in three hours give or take”

Her nonchalant tone was matched by a small kid who seemed far too exhausted with her, Elmo dropped to the ground. Homelander was mostly in awe that the kid could fly after only two hours and based on her heartbeat she wasn’t telling the truth entirely, but he kept it to himself for the moment.

“He could explode! You could’ve killed him already!” The scientist spoke on your behalf looking at the child horrified.

“Maybe you should’ve kept him in the labs instead of dragging us here… bit rich for you to care considering you experiment on people all the time without their consent…. Sage Grove, Elmira… Godolkin… should I keep going? Great timing to grow a conscience, clown.”

She took her bag off his hands, and her pad.

“Left you a sample if you'd like to test it out… hope you copied it because I ain’t giving it to you for free”

“That’s Vought property!” He tried taking the notepad from her hand, she jumped back lifting her chin for a thick invisible wall to divide the space– you little–

An invisible force maneuvers him flat against the wall, his cheeks pressed comically against the translucent sheet.

“Am I in trouble?” She looked at her father.

“Can you squeeze him flat?” He asked, looking curiously at the scene.

“Can hold back a thousand gallons… what do you think?”

“Let him go. Get the kid under observation and let’s see what this nerd wants.” He said with a jovial tone.

It was like a scene of a bad movie, you were simply forced to watch as they both bonded over their mutual awfulness– the rest of the evening became a blur, your body had moved but you weren’t piloting it, sounds measly echoes as you followed them around, occasionally catching Nigel and now presumably his husband Sven talking as he had joined the party by the time you noticed you had arrived in the labs… unsure when/how you got here.

Your body observed as Helena dragged the scientist and now a small posse of coated men to discuss her work, you left to sit alone in one of the rooms.

The lights were low, and at some stage Homelander had come in– it was painfully silent until he arrived, but you were just there, half-alive.

“What are you looking at?” Homelander said in a hushed voice as he touched you with a naked hand– can you tell me?”

“There’s a scratch on that metal panel” your voice is so quiet it scares him slightly.

His hand was so light on your shoulder, as if it was hovering instead of being there, he took a chair and pushed it to your side, you both sat together as you scrunched up his cape once he offered you the tip, your hands unconsciously picking up the fabric– the texture like thick culderog.

“We took the kid to Disneyland then the kid acted like they were at Disneyland and we got upset about it.” He said, Homelander’s hand atop of yours as you fidgeted– is okay, daddy has taken care of it, you are not in trouble, baby.” his voice was slightly mocking but it was trying to crack a bad joke– not to insult you.

He leaned against you, feeling the sharp metal edges of his eagles against your shoulders. You started to blink harshly trying to push away the fog with this discomfort, his arm on your hip as he rested his chin atop of your head– he was pulling you into a side-hug, meeting no resistance to his surprise.

“You don’t have to worry 'bout anything.” His voice is warm– am a hero, remember?”

“That kid is going to die…” you whimpered.

“Elmo Cripple is perfectly fine.”

“She didn’t care.” Your voice, starting to crack once again.

“She’s a very confident young lady.” he grimaces– a tad too confident if I say so myself… but you should hear her talking to those guys right now, is incre— I have no idea what she’s saying.”

“Welcome to my life” You nuzzled yourself against him, he was so warm, you could remember the heat– I… I don’t know what I am going to do with her?” You sobbed lightly.

“Let her pursue her dreams while supervised so we don’t have to deal with potential murder charges.”

He tried to make you laugh with his tone but all you could muster was staring back at him with a furrowed brow, your tears staining your cheeks already.

“‘Phantasma and Poltergeist’ I don’t how I feel about our kid being in a team-up… even if the competition isn’t steep– It’ll get difficult as she gets older but then again I don’t want Ryan to compete directly with her for the spotlight, its two different markets with completely different appeals.”

“I don’t want to talk about her being a superhero when we haven’t even handled this…” you said, holding back a sob, trying to clean your face against him.

“... ‘we’?” His hands gave your side a squeeze as his other took your hands more gently making sure to rub your dried knuckles– I think we can handle this, Y/N… we can keep a short leash on her… from now on– rely on me… you deserve that."

Staring back at her happily explaining her process, enjoying seeing the group of Phds feelings of inferiority coloring their faces, it was obvious that she shouldn’t even be in the 10th grade, simply staying behind for your well-being, but just how big was her IQ– how much more smarter was she?

Homelander wanted to see his bouquet of peonies set as the centerpiece she was meant to be, to let her shine as she deserved.

You pulled on his wrist wanting to be held more, it didn’t matter if it was your shitty ex-boyfriend or not, you wanted affectioness, longing for empathy and gentleness.

You already had been kissing– in public no less! He had plans of holding you hostage until you agreed to play house with him, Homelander already testing the waters by making your children play together. Maybe it was your survival mechanism ill-timing but your mind desperately demanded a distraction, your lips were still able to taste peppermint, so your mind wandered south– possibly because that golden belt buckle was perfectly in your sight.

Frankly the last time you had a date was when Helena was five, they were cute, visited Lucci a couple times before asking for your number, the dates were great and the last time you had sex was with this guy before he dumped you, you thought they’ve potential and your wrist had taken enough abuse over the years– if anything you had given up your womanhood, too tired and focused with rearing lil’ Einstein to notice your needs, sleeping with this cutie wasn’t terrible but the moment the word “Freak” was uttered in reference to your kid– you were throwing their shit out the window.

For the first time since she was born you found yourself not alone and supported, your friends had seen you like you carrier of pestilence affecting their jobs by virtue of association, your inability to find employment quickly burdened your friends and relatives, your family and yourself had not seen eye-to-eye for years, your relationship cracking deep enough to touch the abyss once you came home pregnant with no man behind you, then it was out the door after a couple weeks, even the kid didn’t appease them later down the track.

Could he really be relied on? Money was but a gesture of good will– covering for your kid for stealing maybe millions of dollars of god’s own spunk, and potentially getting your daughter acquitted for murder. Now that might be worth a blowie.

And he hurt your jaw quite graciously.

You looked up straight into his face, he had been talking for god knows how long without you noticing, and took his face.

Tasting like spearmint and iron, he was hesitant at first unsure if the timing was good but quickly relented as your tongue got more demanding, his hands now had no clue where to sit or what to touch but he let you take the lead.

You tousled and pulled on his hair, wanting to get him close to you, to feel something good from him for once.

He pushed you lightly as he heard your daughter's steps encroaching, he stood up with a light blush on his ears as he pointed at the door, you looked up wanting to say something but there she was with a big grin on her face and her chest bouncing with excitement.

“You proud of yourself?” Did you ask her or yourself, there?-- If your friend dies…”

“Elmo won’t die… not on a microdose of V. for fuck sakes this company sold diluted V for a G-Fuel collab!”

“You say that but you had never actually worked with V until now! Do you have any idea what you were doing!?”

She looked at the desk nearby, the little GP office setting in this room sort of amusing.

“No. Got a little too eager when I found the playground, it’s sort of a cruel joke for me to be able to make myself invisible, and be in the same building as all of this” She gestured to her surroundings– just because I'm smart doesn’t mean I have the emotional intelligence of an adult to match… So?”

“Do whatever you want Helena… I can’t… I can’t with you… just–

Homelander turned to you, concerned at your tone, it was harsh. Where you giving up on her? He though.

You buried your face beneath your hands, trying to calm down.

“I won’t kill anybody, I'm not interested in that.”

“So what are you interested in?” You argue smacking your back flat on the back of the seat– please enlighten me!?”

“Vought.” Homelander interjects– oh you’re clever…”

He picks her up, poking her nose, there’s an air of comfort in his gesture, as if he always had done so.

“You're a scheming little munchkin.” he squeezes her cheeks jokingly– this isn’t Game of Thrones, darling. Daddy will take care of you”

“You mean the shareholders will take care of me once they realize you can re-open Stan Edgar’s plan to get into the US military… then the police force. Thanks to me.” She gives him a peck on the cheek– but don’t forget I’m not an only child.”

Homelander was blindsided by such a gesture, between you two he was in a tight spot.

Still he was entering heaven as his heart skipped a beat or two, feeling his daughter clung to him, feeling how dangerously light she was, how cute she was, how perfect she was.

Your daughter and yourself stayed silent during that drive home, the radio louder than usual, only when you reached your home did you act, stopping her belt-buckle from coming undone.

“You asked me to play a role in your game without a script– had to improvise.”

“Don’t give me that. You did something horrific Helena! I can't even believe you!” you snapped, your daughter frowned in return as you smacked your palms on the steering wheel– just admit you wanted to do it!”

“I did. I wanted to explore those labs. I like looking at things at Vought– it's stimulating! you want me to get “dad” to love me, no? He loves Vought! I'm just his bastard competing againts the son he’s loved for longer! so I show interest in the one thing he loves other than himself to have an advantage!”

“You went too far!!” you snapped.

“I am not sleeping in a car ever again, Y/N!!” She turned to you with rage in her sight– we are not going back! So you do your thing and I do my thing.”

You let go of her belt buckle.

“You hurt people.” you whispered, pain palpable in your lips, trying to not scream, to not slap her, to stay calm as your daughter heaved angrily, as her eyes glowed intensely.

“I haven’t– Elmo Cripple is alive… so far the only one that’s been hurt is me!!”

She gritted her teeth, the air growing thin inside your old station wagon.

“What is ‘Poltergeist’ getting out of this? He’s not like you.” You didn’t want to argue with her, afraid you would forget she was a child and not a woman– What have you done to him?”

“He’s a dog… don’t worry… he understands I have a vision– I need you to get Homelander to publicly acknowledge me as his daughter.”

Helena hopped off the car slamming the door on her way out.

Your daughter and yourself didn’t speak for the rest of the day, she silently did her thing with only the sounds of the television filling the gap, until bedtime– you sat outside with a cup of hot chocolate in your hands, you glanced at the potted trees and the smooth gray walls of your homely prison, large windows framing your reflection allowing you to catch the blue and red coming down in the glass unsurprisingly.

“You want some hot chocolate?” You asked, lifting your cup.

He looked disgusted at the idea.

“She’s sleeping… I am calling in sick tomorrow… I need a day off…” you muttered as he landed before you, he pushed the metal chair scraping the grass, to take a seat by your side.

“How are you feeling? They will be trying her formula, so she will be there under Dr. Park vigilance… talk about cool after-school activities-- beats being a girl-scout!.” Homelander was clearly not that interested in you tonight– I kept an eye on Poltergeist. All his vital signs are fine.”

You seemed a little relieved.

Gawking at him, his bleached blonde locks, those sharp features and beautiful thin lips, you felt a tingle in your chest.

You wanted to forget about today, to not think of Helena’s actions.

Your smile was sad but he hadn’t noticed.

“Wanna fuck?” You put the cup down with a huff.

Homelander gave you a double take, this was the easiest way to wash away today’s events-- Helena's words creeping back at you... you had to to bind him to you... like this you could rid of these strange sensations simmering within, as you stared at his pretty blue eyes, and his belt, you threw away rationale.

“My battery ran out.”

His nervous smile was cute, you stood up… him still in the chair– turning around once again as you opened the door, inviting him to enter your domain.

Homelander was still so handsome it was infuriating to acknowledge that. Compared to your dull exhausted skin– he was still so fine. It wouldn’t be the worst you’ve done, you missed the attention, and he wanted yours so why not? You scratched your head as he simply stood frozen on the spot, shrugging your shoulders as you closed the door behind– only for his hand to keep it open, his breath ragged and the blush in his cheek matching the faint light of his eyes.

“Are… Are you sure?” he asked nervously.

“John” You tap his chest with your knuckles– take it off.”

Bells rang inside his brain, a shimmering perturbed gaze burning directly at you– a dog awaiting orders.

He followed you into the living room ditching his boots and tights on the way to that terrible couch, he watched you closely as you took a blanket and threw it on the ground alongside the cushions, licking his lip as you took your shirt off revealing your bare breasts.

He was quick to take you into his arms, kissing you intensely, your hands reaching after his neck, fingers harshly caressing his undercut, as he slid down your bottoms.

“You miss me?” His hands were so needy as he bit into your neck leaving trails of hickeys, his tongue savoring that spot where he had marked you as his own, the dents in your skin and the sunken discolored flesh left by his bite mark– it tickles…”

In the heat of the moment he had bitten you, feasting on your blood as pleasure and pain intertwined, your mind blank as he made love to you, fostering a hatred for mirrors after it all ended, feeling him kiss his signature made you anxious, not wanting to relieve the bitter memories in this moment.

“Mommy…” He whispered as he returned to kiss and lick your neck– "It's been so long, mommy.” he said breathlessly.

“Is been long for me too, my sweet boy.” He moaned into your skin, his maws needy, eager to taste you, his breathless soughs turning you light as he brought you down onto the floor, holding your head as he kissed your neck and ears– you promise to make mommy feel good just like I taught you, baby?” Your voice is sickly sweet making his eyes flare up.

“Can… Can mommy show me again?” His voice gravelly and low as he cupped your chest.

You wedged your legs from under him with a cheeky smile.

“I’ll be extra-thorough then, so pay attention, sweetie.”

He liked that tone in your voice, he liked it even more when you commanded him, how long had it been since you lead him? Too long... too long to bare another moment without it.

Unsurprisingly he had no need for a refresher.

Taglist-- @fromforeigntofamiliarity (hope you had a nice snack for this chapter :), @demodemo909 @immyowndefender

#personal #homelander #homelander fanfic #the boys fanfic #the boys oc #my fic tag #american royalty #homelander x reader #homelander x you #dadlander #sorry for spellign errors

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madwomansapologist · 1 year ago

Note

cookie dough + homelander

cookie dough — are they vulnerable with their lover? do they need time to be really open about their lives?

⤷ with: homelander

John is a man that colect different personas. It would all depend a lot, but in all possibilities he would still be dishonest and suspicious.

If you are a civilian who thought Homelander was a hero, than his lies would serve to protect the image you have of him. John will want you to think he's flawless, that he have a good heart, and will do anything to make sure this image of him will be preserved. He would be vulnerable, but would mostly find ways to talk about his problems that don't include saying explicitaly what happened.

But if you happened to see his brutal side, you reaction will determine a lot. Would he able to hear your scared heartbeats? Would you feel disgust to see him covered in blood? Would you try to runaway from him? Or would you be scared that he may be hurt? Would you help him clear the blood? Would you hug him?

If you accept him, if you love him without any fear, than John will understand that you'll be by his side. And if that happens, he won't need a reason to lie anymore. To hide who he is.

That would be way different if you work at Vought. Don't matter if you know the things he did or if you are more naive: he won't trust you. Not entirely, at first. It would take John to see multiple times your loyalty to make him trust you.

If you knew the side everyone tries to hide, then John will make you work on his personal team. If you don't, John will spend a long time trying to decide if he should use his contacts to find you a good job that don't have a risk of you discovering things he would rather leave hidden. At one hand, he can protect his image on your mind. On the other, he won't have you so close to him.

Now, if you are with The Boys... Oh, darling, good luck.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

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sehtoast · 2 years ago

Text

Guilt - (Depowered Homelander x OC) - All of You is Left to Love ch9

1.9k words

Summary: Homelander realizes the consequences of his actions affect much more than just himself.

Warnings: Light descriptions of bodily injuries.

Chapter Directory

What he hated, more than anything, was the waiting.

When would Ben get home? When would his little spider crawl through the window and into their bed?

This night in particular ate at Homelander's nerves in a way that left his entire body wracked with anxiety so deep it made him nauseous.

See, Ben always replies to his texts. Always shoots him a message when he knows it'll be a late night.

John must have texted hours ago. At first, just one message.

'Another late one?'

After roughly ten minutes without a response, he sent another.

'Will you be out long tonight?'

When that message went unanswered, he began to worry that a deep seated fear was coming true.

'Benny?'

'Come on babe, don't leave me hanging.'

By the end of the hour, he must have sent at least thirty texts.

He tried to convince himself that Benjamin was simply busy, but then that part of him slithered from deep within his mind to weigh in.

He left you. Don’t they all, eventually?

John didn’t even bother with a response. No refutation, no shake of his head to will away that voice he’s known since childhood. He just held back the tears, bit back on the panic, shuffling instead to the bedroom and grabbing the bottle of pills he’d come to rely on for sleep. He stared at the name on the bottle with a furrowed brow and melancholy eyes.

Benjamin Colyer, in bold font. His lover made a deal with Vought’s head doctor, all so he could sleep at night…

Two pills down the hatch.

He crawled into bed on Ben’s side, still at the mercy of his protector’s taunts, holding tight to his lover’s favorite blanket for comfort.

Homelander stared at the thread of texts for a minute and decided to try calling.

No answer, of course.

He wiped at his face aggressively, his other hand holding tight to his phone, praying that it’d buzz and let him know he wasn’t alone. Hoping that he’d feel his little spider’s arms wrap around him before the meds put him to sleep.

He drifted off before either happened.

When he did wake, it wasn’t to that stupid, chirping alarm tone that rouses Ben for work– nor was it to the sunrise peeking through the curtains. Ever the uneasy sleeper, even medicated, he was roused from his dreamless sleep by the feeling of a head settling on his chest.

The first thing he did was push Ben onto his back so that he could be the one using his love’s body as a pillow. Two things struck John as odd in that moment– strange enough to notice in his barely awake state. The first, that Benny still had his spider suit on.

The second was a wince– a tight breath held and exhaled as the arms he yearned for wrapped around him.

“What was that..?” He murmured, his head groggy and heavy from his medication.

A beat of silence, and another tight breath.

“Nothin’.”

In the past, he’d have been content to nod and fall back asleep without care. Self centered and ignorant, he’d assume all was well so long as he had all that he wanted.

John, however, was not that same man anymore. He was… different, now. A new chamber in his heart, growth– Ben’s influence coupled with a sprinkling of humility from losing his powers.

He smacked around the nightstand, banging the lampshade before switching the light on.

Homelander’s eyes widened, panic wriggling through his body like a million worms– a thousand pound weight forming in his gut.

“Wh– what…” is all he could muster.

Eyes roving over every inch of Ben’s body, breath caught in his throat.

Bruises everywhere were what stood out the most. A busted lip, a cut at the bridge of his nose, smatterings of purples and blues at Ben’s cheeks and jaw, trailing underneath the neckline of his suit.

The worst, though, was the three thick claw marks carved into Ben’s chest from his collarbone to just below his sternum. If not for the fact they were already scabbed over, he’d surely be cleaning up a river of blood.

Ben shushes him before he even can speak. “S’fine,” he whispers, groaning softly as he shifts his weight. His hand, bloodied and with a slight tremble, comes to Homelander’s face to…

To comfort him.

“Y’should see the other guy.” Ben exhales, head leaned back against the pillow. “Mm, never thought I’d fight a guy who can turn into a giant lizard, but…”

The little dose of humor spurred John from his shock, and his mind kicked into overdrive.

What to do? How to help him? Would he need to go to the hospital? Would it make everything worse to move him? Did–

Did his leak of Compound V lead to the creation of whatever fucking cockroach put their hands– their claws into his little spider? Was he responsible for this?

Deflect.

“I thought– Didn’t you get stronger after that time with the therapeutic V? How the fuck did this happen!?”

Deflect.

Ben smiled, lip stinging at the stretch.

“Starting to think I kept just about everything but the invulnerability…” A chuckle. Always jovial, even in the face of pain. “Go figure.”

With some coaxing and support, John managed to get Ben stripped and seated in the bathroom while he fumbled about with cotton balls and wound cleaner, guided by Benjamin’s directions.

“Sorry,” the wall crawler murmured as Homelander knelt before him, dabbing at the cut on his nose.

“For?”

“Making you worry. Waking you up.” Ben gave an apologetic, knowing smile. “Kept you waiting.”

Yeah, John’s inner voice retorted bitterly. Sure fuckin’ did.

He couldn’t say anything. If he opened his mouth, the guilt would come pouring out. If he hadn't leaked V, would Ben be like this now? Would his lover be out all the time cleaning up his mess?

Homelander could practically count on one hand the amount of times in his life that he felt truly bad for the consequences of his actions.

This…

This was one of them.

“I…”

The sound slipped free before he could stop it, and with it came the gnawing distress brewing deep in his gut.

“This is my fault…”

“Huh?” Ben’s brow furrowed. “What– wait, this?”

Homelander nodded, the discomfort of his accountability churning his all too human stomach.

“John, you did not make a giant lizard man and tell him to go terrorize the town.” Ben laughed incredulously. “Why in the world would that b– oh…”

The realization hit quickly.

Ben raised a hand to John’s face, stroking his thumb across the pink scar at his cheekbone.

“Babe,” he began, that unlimited fount of kindness within him leaking through every word. ”Yes, you leaked the stuff that made these guys. But you’re not responsible for what they chose to do with their powers.”

Ben certainly wouldn't look him in the eye and say that leaking V wasn't a total fuck up. Because it absolutely was. But blaming him, treating him maliciously for it wouldn't undo a single thing. The only redemption left now was to contain the mess. So, that's what he vowed to do.

He would contain Homelander's mess. Atone for his other half's wrongs.

John gazed up at him, eyes wide like a child receiving a reprimand.

“But I–”

“Nope,” Ben shushed him, thumb now at his lips. “Look, regardless, you’re here helping me patch up afterward. Helping me keep my head on my shoulders while I handle it.”

John leaned his head down, burying his face against Ben’s thigh. Clenching his eyes shut, fighting against himself. Wanted to hold the words inside, wanted so desperately not to outwardly be as weak as he felt.

You almost lost him. He almost didn’t make it home. You really do destroy everything you love…

He wished so much sometimes that his alter ego would shut up.

“Look at you…” He murmured, voice breaking. “What– What if you didn’t come home, huh? I’d be responsible for that, I–”

“Johnny…”

Neither said a word for a while, just… sat there. Silent apologies. Silent comforts. Ben's hand on Homelander's back, John's head and hands resting on Benjamin's thighs.

He looked as though he were knelt before an altar, praying to a deity. For forgiveness, perhaps.

For something already given.

"How do I fix your chest..?"

His voice was nearly nothing. Whispered, barely, into his love's lap.

Ben smiled down at him, though he couldn't see.

"Well," he began with a flutter of diffusing humor. "I think, honestly, we just gotta clean it. I bet that guy never cleans under his big lizard nails."

After some apprehensive touches, some cold wound cleaner, and a roll of gauze wrap, John finished cleaning and dressing Ben’s chest. He’d been so afraid to even graze the scabbed lacerations, so afraid to hurt Ben even more.

As they lay in bed, each of them exhausted, sleep remained elusive. Ben insisted that Homelander could rest his head upon his chest, despite the injuries. The web-head stared at the ceiling for a time, fingers idly stroking through John’s dark, shaggy hair as he contemplated Homelander’s guilt from earlier.

John had gone quiet since then, simply clinging to him.

Finally, with a sigh of contentment, Ben spoke.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

Homelander’s response came as a nod.

Another beat of silence.

“I’m always gonna come home to you, babe.” Ben murmured. “I’m sorry I scared you…”

He contemplated his next words carefully. Didn't want to reveal too much about what he'd gone through in that fight.

"Y'know, when I was chasing him, he ran onto the bridge to Queens…"

The bridge to home…

"He started tossing cars off the side to distract me," Ben continued, gaze still fixed on the ceiling. "Got to a point where he pinned me down when I was trying to finish connecting a web to the guard rail, and…"

A deep exhale.

"After he clawed me, and I didn't think I could get him off of me, I realized he'd probably keep running this way once I was down and out, yeah?"

Homelander lifted his head to look at Ben. What was the point of this..?

"But, when I was pinned, I just… thought of you." Ben continued, eyes closing as he let his mind wander back. "Thought, what if, by some bullshit odds, he finds you. Hurls cars around or something, and one came through this window. Thought how you'd be if I didn't come home. How you'd react if you saw it on the news…"

Saw that I got killed.

"You, in that moment, were what I needed to keep going. Whether you believe it or not, I've got you fighting these bastards with me every day."

John had buried his face into Ben's neck, hand cupped at the other side.

"Shut up," Homelander whispered through the tightness of his throat. "Just shut up and sleep, please…"

Don't remind me that I have something to lose.

Something I can't protect anymore.

Ben shut his eyes once more. He understood without it being said. He always did.

Always would.

"I love you, too."

#homelander #homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #homelander fanfic #the boys #the boys homelander #depowered homelander #the Benlander agenda

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theboysfanfic · 2 years ago

Text

Stage Left

Homelander x f!reader

Words: 600 Warnings: NO smut.

SUMMARY: You and Homelander are in a stage show together. He shows his intentions.

Author's note: A quick one shot inspired by a trip to the theatre.

MASTERLIST

When he moves a strand of my hair away, when his palm lands softly against the side of my face, moving me to look at him I feel it again. Like I want him to spin me backstage and never return me. Away from all eyes and away from the make believe, to a real place where me and him can be. But he's here. On this solid stage and I'm here in front of him bitter-sweet. Playing in motion. forward then stepping backwards erasing the progress in a whirlwind back to reality, when his eyes turn hard and he drops his hands from me, when the curtain rises there's no time for him anymore to pretend. It's when my heart drops and the longing is on overdrive. I can't tell him.

He knows. He knows by the way my heartbeat rises when our scenes begin, when he touches me, when he feels my skin through the keyhole in my costume. He wants to know what would happen backstage if he dared to pin me to the wall. He could and he would. One day he's hanging around the dressing area. Lurking, pacing. ‘Great scene!’ he says. Silence. Only hte sound of costumes unwrapping and shoes unbuckling as he stands over me. ‘Ok. Anything wrong?’ ‘Yes.’ He says. ‘What was it?’ ‘You.’ ‘Me?’ He runs out sighing into his fist. ‘What do I do with that? Asshole! Now I’ve got to find the stage manager.’ I don't hear anything but praise when I clarify. ‘Hmm, nothing’s wrong, you were great. Good chemistry. Nothing to worry about. You'd hear from me if there was.’ I go to him and he's tense. I catch him in the middle of something. ‘Look I don't know what you were talking about but I’m good. If you can’t tell me a reason then I’ll take is as none. I know I did good. Are you really taking dire thin into your own hands? ‘You’re good, but I'm not.’ He side eyes me. ‘You're not? What do you mean?’ ‘I mean,’ he steps forward, ‘it's something else we're missing.’ ‘Missing? What, do you think’s missing?’ ‘There is isn't there?’ He quietly states inching closer. Drawing up to me so I'm too mesmerised to notice he's closed the distance and is lifting my chin up to him. ‘I think you know.’ he says calmly, staring me down. ‘I don't.’ ‘Don't play coy I can see it. You can't hide it from me.’ He spins his head round as we're interrupted. He glares at me as he walks away. Another time after our grand scene he grips me a bit tighter. He lets go a lot more reluctantly, his fingers dig into my arms and draw stripes that I can see underneath my clothes if I look closely afterwards. Brushing me with his grazes. He mentions me more in press for the musical. ‘My perfect play partner,’ he tells them, ‘if she was by my side now I’d be empowered.’ Ridiculous, he's too strong for his own good and too mean to gain the love he wants yet his remarks about me increase and the contact increases. Linked arms, brushes and his fake affectionate looks. ‘Stop it John! Why do you do that? I don't want to put up with this, you’re controlling and mean. It's cruel what you're doing. Do your job and leave me alone. Why are you so sick?’ I shout. ‘It's not sick if I mean it.’ He whispers to me in the shade of the curtain when we walk out stage left. His hands winding around my back as he follows behind me, presses against me, lowering to whisper in my ear.

Credit: Dividers by @firefly-graphics x. Feedback banners by @maysdigitalarts

#homelander fanfic #homelander x reader #theboys fanfic #antony starr #homelander

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writinginpinkpink · 7 months ago

Text

The Price of Life. [0.3]

homelander x fem!reader

summary: Homelander saved you and gave you life, but with one rule: be utterly loyal to him. Despite this, you went beyond mere obedience and provided him with what he needed most: love.

warnings: homelander, violence, swearing, smut (eventually), a bit of stockholm syndrome?

taglist: @tfamidoingwithmylife

masterlist | requests opened! | previous

When morning came, you woke up to find Homelander already up, his hair impeccably styled as he rehearsed his lines in front of the mirror. He glanced at you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good morning, YN. Today is a big day for us,” he said, his voice unnervingly peaceful. “Get dressed. We have a press conference in an hour.”

You nodded, getting up and putting on the uniform he had given you. The new suit felt unfamiliar against your skin, a constant reminder of your new commitment, but you liked how it looked on you.

“Save your concern for someone who needs it,” you retorted, brushing past her. “I’ve made my choice.”

The press conference was held in the main hall of Vought Tower. As you and Homelander stood together, facing the flashing cameras and the eager reporters, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Homelander began, his voice strong and authoritative. “I have an important announcement to make. YN and I are now in a relationship. Together, we’ll make sure to combat the lies the media spreads and show you the truth for a brighter future for America.”

You forced a smile, nodding along with his words. The room erupted in applause, and the questions started flying. You answered them as best as you could, sticking to the narrative Homelander had laid out. The applause and the attention felt intoxicating, filling you with a sense of significance you had never experienced before.

After the press conference, you found yourself alone with Homelander in a small conference room. He turned to you, his expression unreadable.

“You did well out there,” he said, his tone almost approving. “But remember, they love me, not you. If anything happens, I can turn them against you in a heartbeat.”

You nodded, feeling a strange thrill at his threat. It wasn’t a problem for you; it was just part of who he was, and you liked it. “I understand.”

“Good,” he replied. “Now, I have something else for you. A mission. It’s a test of your loyalty.”

Your heart raced at his words. “What kind of mission?”

He handed you a folder with detailed information. “There’s a supe disrupting the city. I want you to take care of it. Show me that you’re devoted to me.”

You opened the folder and scanned the contents, your eyes narrowing as you took in the details. The name and face of the target were familiar, and you realized why Homelander had chosen her, you couldn't deny him: this was your chance to prove yourself to Homelander, to solidify your place by his side.

“I’ll take care of it,” you said confidently.

As you left the room to prepare for the mission, you ran into Annie.

“YN, please. Think about what you’re doing,” she pleaded. “This isn’t you. Homelander is dangerous. You don’t have to do this.”

Your anger flared at her words. “Oh, I see what’s going on. You’re jealous, Annie. You can’t stand that someone else might be in the spotlight for once.”

“Jealous? That’s not it at all,” Annie insisted, her eyes wide with shock. “I’m worried about you. Homelander isn’t who you think he is.”

“This again?” you snapped, feeling the resentment bubble up. “We’ve already talked about this. You’ve always been jealous of me. Ever since I joined The Seven, you’ve treated me like I’m just your sidekick. Well, guess what? I’m done being in your shadow. Homelander sees my potential, and he’s given me a chance to prove myself.”

“YN, you’re making a mistake,” Annie said, her voice softer now, pleading. “This isn’t about jealousy. It’s about keeping you safe.”

The mission Homelander gave you was straightforward: eliminate a minor supe. As you approached the familiar location, a strange feeling hit your stomach. It was just an old warehouse; there was no reason for you to feel this way. Everything would have been so much easier if you didn’t have so many memories. However, none of it mattered. You knew Homelander, and you knew this was his way to test you, to see how far you would go for him. And you would go damn far.

You entered the warehouse, your senses heightened, and quickly located your target. Your heart skipped a beat. The supe was a young woman with the ability to ignite fire. She turned to face you, her eyes widening in recognition. Affection filled her eyes, but you didn’t allow yours to show the same feeling.

“YN? What are you doing here? Miss the team?” she asked, smiling. Her hair was different, and her face a little older, but the smile was the same. Her expression faltered as she noticed the darkness in your gaze—a look she couldn’t quite recognize. It was you, but something was different, something unsettling.

“I’m here to take care of a problem,” you replied coldly, stepping closer. You knew that to get the job done, you would have to leave it all behind—all the love for your past had to be destroyed so there would be enough space for your savior.

She backed away, her confusion evident. “What are you talking about? Is this about that shirt—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you interrupted.

Before she could react, you lunged at her, using your improved strength to pin her to the ground. She struggled, but you were stronger, you were better. You could almost hear Homelander's voice in your head, telling you how good you were being for him. You felt a twisted sense of fulfillment as you overpowered her, your hands closing around her throat.

As she gasped for air, her flames flickering out, you leaned in closer, your voice a cold whisper. “I wish I could say I'm sorry that things ended like this.” You saw Ember's tear running down her cheek, but somehow it meant nothing to you. She meant nothing to you now.

With a final, cruel twist, you snapped her neck, feeling a wave of energy and pleasure. You stood up, looking down at her lifeless body, and felt no remorse. You weren't even ashamed about it.

You wiped away a tear you didn't realize was falling. Maybe that was your last bit of humanity. But you knew that everything would be worth it.

Returning to Vought Tower, you made your way to Homelander’s office, feeling a mix of pain and pride. Eager to see him as soon as possible, you quickened your pace, anxious for his praise. When you entered, he looked you up and down with a smirk.

“Looks like you’ve been in quite a fight,” he said, his tone a blend of amusement and condescension. “Guess the supe wasn’t much of a challenge after all.”

“I handled it,” you replied, a rush of pride in your voice. “For you.”

Homelander’s expression remained assertive as he stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek with a calculated touch. “I know. You did such a good job, YN.” Your heart raced, the sound of it loud in your ears. You felt as if you would do it a thousand times again just to hear him say it once more.

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, his approval filling you with a sense of accomplishment. “Thank you.”

He guided you to his desk, where he began tending to your wounds. His touch was far from gentle, but you made sure not to flinch, determined to show that you could endure his roughness. As he worked, his eyes remained fixed on you, a mixture of satisfaction and possessiveness in his gaze.

“You know, you made the right choice,” he said, his voice low and assured. “Now nothing is standing between us.”

You felt a deep sense of commitment at his words, and you looked into his eyes, feeling the intensity of his gaze. “I’d do anything for my family,” you declared, your voice steady.

Homelander’s eyes shifted, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Without warning, he gripped your chin firmly, his lips crashing against yours with a fierce urgency. At first, you struggled to keep up with the intensity, but soon you found yourself matching his desperation, surrendering to his need.

He used you as he pleased, and you embraced it, feeling a mix of exhilaration and belonging. The lines between pain and pleasure blurred as you gave yourself over completely.

#the boys x reader #homelander the boys #homelander fanfic #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #homelander #the boys fanfic #the boys x y/n #the boys fanfiction #the boys #homlander

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mmogurl · 5 months ago

Text

To my fellow fic writers - How do you make it through writing a smut scene without getting horribly turned on?? I swear to god, these scenes KILL ME! Is there a way to shut your brain off from the sex while still being able to write!?! What do I do?! xD But yes, I've taken a break from my Homelander fic to work on Chapter 7 of my Daemon fic and it's SMUT HEAVY- which btw, if you're into that story, there is a lot more posted on AO3 while I work to catch up on posting here. Oh! And I also have another HUGE Homelander fic on AO3 called Sympathy for the Homelander which I have yet to post here. Soon.. soon. Now back to our regularly scheduled dying from too much Daemon hotness. X_X

#i turned myself on #smut #daemon smut #daemon fic #daemon targaryen #fanfic #daemon targaryen smut #homelander smut #homelander fanfiction #homelander fanfic #homelander #homelander x oc #homelander x you #homelander x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #smut writer woes

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ishomieokay · 3 months ago

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And We Made You Pairs (Ch. 3)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

When Noura’s town faces annihilation, Homelander must make a choice. Will he remain the military’s loyal wardog, or will he do something good for once in his life? ao3.

✰ warnings - terrorism, kamikaze missions, radicalization, incitement to commit suicide (typical homie behavior, lmao).

✰ taglist - @discowizard88, @possiblyafangirl, @sacha1slytherin, @infinetlyforgotten, @redroserabbit, @1800imgay Let me know if you want to be tagged!

It was a rainy morning. The basement was cloaked in shadows, a handful of candles casting a faint glow over the small, crowded space. The walls were damp, lined with crude paintings depicting martyrs and ancient battles— bloody chapters of the Quran. Amir sat cross-legged on the floor among a group of young men, each face tense and alert, all eyes locked on Hassan El Ghany as he spoke.

Hassan’s voice had a magnetic quality, the measured, confident vigor of a seasoned leader. He leaned against a table covered in maps and journals, his face barely visible under the sparse light. He was old, almost frail looking, and yet his presence dominated the room. A former soldier turned rebel, Hassan was a hero to many. He wore the scars of countless battles, visible and invisible, and when he spoke, it was as though the walls themselves leaned closer to listen.

“For a year now,” Hassan was saying, his voice low but sharp, “they’ve sat in their palaces, the so-called leaders of this country, shaking hands with the same men who brought destruction to our homes.” He paused, allowing the disgust in his tone to settle, for his words to take root in the minds of the young men before him. “They call it diplomacy,” he sneered. “I call it betrayal. Reopening the American embassy? After all they’ve done to us?”

Amir shifted, feeling the bite of Hassan’s words open a festering wound. He thought of his sister, Noura, sitting in the kitchen of their small apartment after another sleepless night, the strain of endless worries pulling at her. Nineveh’s destruction had marked them, had marked him, but he was haunted even more by the knowledge that they might never feel safe again. Now, El Ghany offered him a chance to fight that fear with something stronger.

Hassan’s gaze drifted over the men in the room, resting on Amir with a knowing look. “You all have a duty,” he continued. “To make sure they remember that this land is not theirs to trade away. It’s ours .” His voice softened, then, as if to incite a frightened, hungry animal to eat out of his hand. “Each of you is a hero waiting for your moment. When that time comes, you’ll know what to do.”

Amir’s pulse quickened as Hassan’s words wrapped around him, filling the cracks left behind by carnage and war. He felt the weight of his own anger shift, like a stone moved just enough to allow something else through—a need for retaliation. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes focused on Hassan, as if to catch every last syllable of his lethal promise.

“Amir.” Hassan’s voice broke into his thoughts, as if beckoning him closer. Amir swallowed, suddenly self-conscious under the steady gaze of the other young men. “I see courage in you. An orphan without a home, forsaken by our leaders, by those who swore to protect us. You’ve already endured what most could never imagine,” Hassan said solemnly. “And only for that, you have more to fight for than your brothers.”

Hassan reached down beside the table and picked up a vest, its weight and purpose unmistakable. He extended it to Amir, who accepted it with trembling hands. The fabric was rough and heavy in his grip, and he could feel the chilling reality of its purpose sinking in.

“This vest,” Hassan murmured, his voice low but clear, “is your path to freedom. Wear it with pride. You’ll be a martyr—your name remembered long after we’re gone.” He placed a small remote in Amir’s hand, his fingers curling Amir’s around it, as if asking him to not let go. “With this, you hold their fear. You hold the power to make them feel the same terror we feel every day.”

Amir trembled, the weight of the vest pressing against him, the remote cold and unfamiliar in his palm. He tried to steel himself, to calm the wild beat of his heart. He had to do this. For Noura, for his town, for the hope that someone could make those monsters pay.

He heard himself say, “I’m ready,” though he hardly recognized his own voice.

Hassan’s eyes softened, and he nodded approvingly, a small, prideful smile forming at the edge of his mouth.

Noura paced the length of her small apartment, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. The sun was sinking low, casting an amber glow across the room. Each ring on the line felt like a countdown, her worry increasing with every second Amir didn’t answer.

Fatima watched from the couch, her brow creased with concern. “Noura,” she said gently, but Noura barely glanced in her direction. “Maybe Amir’s just blowing off steam. You know how he can be when he’s restless. Boys his age, they—”

“No.” Noura shook her head, her gaze darting back to her phone screen. “He wouldn’t just disappear like this. He hasn’t been himself for weeks now. Distant, secretive… It’s not like him, Fatima.”

Fatima bit her lip, reaching out as if she could somehow steady Noura from the whirlwind of emotions tugging her down. “Maybe he’s just trying to make sense of it all. The attack, the protests—everything’s been so chaotic this past year. For all of us.”

Noura’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “He’s angry, Fatima. Hurt in a way I can’t heal. And I’m scared of where that anger might take him.” Her thoughts strayed back to the days following the attack on Nineveh, the loss that had changed them both so drastically. She had seen the haunted look in Amir’s eyes, the impotent fury. She hadn’t known how deeply it had sunk into him until recently. Now, it seemed to manifest all the time, in increasingly wild and unpredictable ways.

Fatima sighed, seeming unsure of what to say. “Amir’s strong. And he has you.”

“But he’s young,” Noura said, her voice rising as she shoved her phone into her pocket. “And bitter. Bitter enough to do something stupid if the wrong person is whispering in his ear.”

“The wrong person?” Fatima blinked, taken by surprise. “And… who would that be?”

Noura shook her head, unsure what had prompted her to say that. There was a name at the tip of her tongue. Amir spoke of him often, with an admiration that bordered on reverence. She didn't like it. To her, it felt as haram as worshiping at the altar of a pagan God.

Hassan El Ghany—she’d heard his name before, whispered in the hushed corners of meetings or late-night discussions among activists. A former soldier, now rebel leader, Hassan promised liberation and revenge, and she feared he knew exactly what to say to lure in someone like Amir. A twenty something young man, not college educated, without a job, desperate to feel like he could still make a difference.

Noura stormed toward Amir’s room, her heart pounding. Maybe he’d left something behind—a clue, anything that could lead her to him. The room was in disarray, his bed unmade, clothes strewn across the floor. She sifted through his things, careful not to disturb too much, hoping he would return and find everything as he left it. Her fingers brushed over a crumpled piece of paper near his pillow, and her breath caught.

The note was hastily scrawled, as if written in a rush. “For Syria’s future,” it read, “sacrifices must be made.”

Noura paled as she held the note. Her mind raced, piecing together the warnings she had ignored, the changes in Amir’s behavior. A wave of terror washed over her. She shoved the note into her pocket, already reaching for her keys.

“Where are you going?” Fatima asked, standing quickly.

“I have to find him,” Noura said, her voice unsteady. “If I’m right… he could be about to do something terrible. Something irreversible.”

Fatima’s hand gripped her arm. “Noura, you can’t just go looking for him alone. At this hour? It’s dangerous!”

“Amir is out there,” Noura said, not a hint of doubt in her voice. “He’s my brother. If he’s mixed up in something… I can’t just sit here.”

Fatima let go, her gaze softening. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Noura said firmly. “If it’s what I think it is, I don’t want you caught up on it. I’ll just ask around, see if anyone knows where he might have gone.”

Without another word, Noura left, plunging into the crowded streets. The fading sun cast Damascus in hues of deepening blue and gray, the city alive with lights and vendors. She moved quickly, head held high, her gaze sharp as she scanned the faces in the crowd, searching for someone who might have seen Amir.

She stopped by the nearest café where Amir had once spent time with his friends. The small shop was bustling with regulars enjoying the end of their day. She approached the owner, her voice urgent as she asked about her brother’s whereabouts. The man shook his head. She moved on to the local market, stopping passersby, but again no luck. Her desperation took over, and she found herself speaking another name, asking for someone else.

Noura watched as people exchanged glances, reluctant to speak about Hassan El Ghany out loud. The name was a curse to some, a beacon to others. She pressed on, asking in hushed tones, “Do you know where I can find Hassan’s men?” A young vendor sent a wary glance her way.

“I wouldn’t go looking for them, sister,” she murmured, looking over her shoulder. “They were seen today downtown, near the marketplace. Be careful, though. They don’t take kindly to questions.”

With a nod of thanks, Noura left, her steps quickening as she made her way down the street.

General Thompson’s voice echoed through the briefing room as he paced in front of the digital map, his heavy boots striking the ground in precise intervals. The image of Damascus flickered, showing red markers in the city center, the outlines of buildings, and a few isolated streets. Thompson leaned in, pointing with a gloved hand toward one particular sector of the map.

“We’ve intercepted intel on an imminent attack. A bombing planned in the heart of Damascus. Target’s likely to be high-density civilian areas—markets, transportation hubs. ” he began. “Now, as you all know, we have no legal jurisdiction in this city. But if a good samaritan, someone who was technically not military personnel, were to intervene and stop this tragedy from happening… I think that would gain us a lot of points with the new administration. Al-Assad is finally gone. It's time to get his successors in our pockets.”

He sent a meaningful glance in Homelander’s direction. He stared back, unsurprised. It was not the first time they played this card. He nodded in agreement, arms folded across his chest.

Fatigue was weighing down on him tonight. Three years of deployment had finally taken their toll. When he’d first arrived in Syria, he’d felt unstoppable—a true American hero in a foreign land, flexing power in a place where he had nothing to lose. Now, that energy had dulled, and only a hollow sense of duty remained.

Thompson tapped the map again, and the image shifted to display a low-resolution photograph of a young man, his gaze steely, lips pressed into a thin line. The surveillance photo had been captured through night-vision, and the light cast a ghostly green tint over his face. Homelander’s eyes narrowed.

“Amir Al-Sayed,” Thompson announced, his tone businesslike. “According to our mole, this young man has been recruited by Hassan El Ghany’s network. He’s carrying a vest—wired and ready to detonate.”

A sliver of recognition slid through Homelander’s mind. Al-Sayed. He’d seen his face before, here and there on social media. In the posts Noura Al-Sayed made ralling locals and sympathizers to stand against foreign military presence.

“This one’s non-negotiable,” Thompson continued, his voice steely. “You know what’s at stake. We need results, not hesitation.”

Homelander held his gaze steady as he nodded, glancing once more at the grainy image on the screen. Amir’s face looked both fearful and determined, the kind of look that only came from those young enough—or desperate enough—to believe in martyrdom. He’d seen it before, countless times over, in every target he’d been assigned.

“We’re expecting this to happen tonight, in the busiest part of town. You’ll intercept before he can reach his objective. This is a cut-and-dry op,” Thompson said, his tone leaving no room for interpretation. “Neutralize him.”

Homelander remained silent, but as the lights flickered back on, Thompson’s expression softened slightly. “I know you’ve been here a long time, soldier,” he said, as if in half-hearted consolation. “But we need you to stick to this. You’re the only one who can get close enough, fast enough. We can’t afford failure.”

Failure. The word hung in the air, a reminder of everything Homelander was never allowed to be. He nodded curtly and rose to his feet, waiting for Thompson’s dismissive wave before he left the briefing room, heading down the long, empty corridors of the US embassy. Outside, dusk had settled over the city, casting a dim, orange light through the high windows.

As he walked, the image of Amir’s face lingered in his mind. The younger Al-Sayed shared some resemblance to his sister, though his expression was harder, sharpened by anger. He thought of Noura’s impassioned speeches, the way she ignited her followers with righteous fury.

Now, that fire had spread to her brother, consuming him with the same need to fight back, even if it meant self-destruction. Homelander remembered the first time he saw her—standing defiantly at that press conference, words like knives, unafraid. She had faced him without flinching, without giving him an ounce of respect. And in return, she had paid for it in ways she likely hadn’t even realized yet.

He reached the door to his quarters and paused, his reflection in the glass catching his eye. The fatigue was visible now, the sharpness he once carried dulling. But he forced it down, smothering that glimpse of weariness. He was the Homelander—untouchable, superior. These people and their struggles, their little rebellions, meant nothing to him. Except...

Noura Al-Sayed.

Her brother. Her blood.

He’d seen so many faces these last three years—lives he’d erased without a second thought. They blurred together, a mosaic of forgotten souls. It felt different now. Personal. He’d seen this face in fragments, woven into the story Al-Sayed had crafted online, in the glimpses of her family, of her life before the destruction.

Her brother’s death would devastate her. A part of Homelander felt contentment, even vindication. He relished the thought of seeing her crumble, drunk on this new power he held over her. It would break her spirit, silence that voice that had dared to defy him in public. Perhaps it would even be a kind of poetic justice.

The night had draped Damascus in shadow, but the narrow, winding alleys were still alive with murmurs and movement. Noura’s heart pounded as she clutched her phone, her fingers tight and sweaty against the cool glass. Once again, the call went to voice mail.

She wove her way through the crowd, desperation sharpening her gaze as she scanned each face, searched each corner. She stopped to ask a street vendor, a weathered man hunched over his cart, but he only shook his head, glancing at her with a trace of sympathy. “Haven’t seen him, dear,” he muttered before turning back to his wares.

Everywhere she went, it was the same—shrugs, half-hearted glances, apologetic words. None of it brought her closer to Amir. Panic twisted inside her as she moved, her brother’s name hovering on her lips, though she was too afraid to shout it aloud. She could feel the weight of the note she had found in his room, the single, haunting phrase lingering in her mind: for Syria’s future, sacrifices must be made.

He was out there somewhere, convinced that he was doing something heroic, something meaningful, when all she could see was the looming shadow of tragedy.

“Noura!” Her phone buzzed, Fatima’s voice crackling through the speaker as she caught her breath in an alley, hand pressed against the rough stone wall. “Noura, listen—I've heard something.”

“Fatima, please tell me you know where Amir is.” Noura’s voice was desperate, her words tumbling over each other.

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a shaky exhale. “I don’t, not exactly, but there’s a rumor going around. Hassan’s group… they’re planning something big tonight. The word is, it’s happening at the market square. Not far from where you are.”

Noura’s throat tightened. The market square. It was a hub, crowded even at this hour, where vendors and locals mingled, an easy target for anyone wanting to make a deadly statement.

“Do you think…,” Noura whispered, swallowing hard, “do you think Amir could be there?”

“Noura, please,” Fatima’s voice was thick with worry, the urgency prickling through the line. “Don’t go looking for him. You have no idea what you might be running into.”

Noura had already turned, though, her feet carrying her toward the market square. She didn’t have time for fear—not now, not when her brother might be moments away from making an irreversible mistake. Her breaths came fast as she navigated the tight streets, the city blurring past her in shadows and fractured light.

Her mind raced with fragmented images, snatches of memory: Amir’s quiet, resolute face, the arguments they’d had since he’d started idolizing men like El Ghany, his words taut with anger and frustration. He had been slipping further and further away, and she’d tried to reach him, tried to keep him grounded. But what if it hadn’t been enough?

Her hand slipped over the phone in her pocket, and she dialed Amir again. This time, the line clicked, and his voice came through, faint but clear.

“Amir!” she gasped, relief and fear twisting together. “Amir, where are you?”

There was silence on the other end, the kind that stretched too long, too empty. “Noura,” he finally murmured, his voice raw, almost unrecognizable. “I… I’m doing something important. Something that matters.”

Noura choked back a cry. “Amir, please, whatever they’ve told you—whatever they’ve made you believe—this isn’t the answer. Lives will be lost. You’re putting yourself in danger. You’re putting us all in danger!”

He exhaled, a quiet, broken sound that seemed to ripple through her. “They’ve taken everything from us, Noura. You know that. This is the only way to take something back.”

She fought to keep her voice steady. “We can find another way. Together. Just tell me where you are, please.”

“I just…,” a long pause, “I just wanted you to know that I love you, and… I’m sorry.” The line went dead then, the words swallowed by silence.

Tears blurred Noura’s vision as she gripped the phone, her fingers trembling. She turned the last corner, and the square opened up before her, the hum of the crowd louder, pulsing with life. She scanned the faces, searching for Amir, for any sign of him among the bustling market stalls.

Nothing. Noura’s jaw clenched as she looked into the crowd, scanning each movement, each shifting shadow. She’d already lost so much.

She couldn’t lose Amir too.

The alley was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling street nearby, swarmed with crowds. Amir stood in the corner, his hand clutched around the trigger mechanism strapped to his chest. His face was pale, set with the determination of someone who had already said his goodbyes.

High above, Homelander watched, unnoticed, his silhouette merging with the darkened rooftops. He knew he could end this here and now, end it without anyone ever knowing there had been a threat. He thought of Al-Sayed, then, of her grief-stricken face once the news was delivered. The fire in her eyes finally dying down. A satisfied smile tugged at his mouth. It would be so easy, it almost felt like cheating.

He drifted down, landing silently a few feet behind his target. “So, this is it?” he drawled, crossing his arms. “This is what they told you to do, huh? Blow yourself up for some guy who probably won’t even remember your name?”

Amir spun around, eyes wide with shock. For a moment, he fumbled with the trigger, but before he could blink, Homelander’s hand shot out, snatching it effortlessly from his grip. He held it up, examining the device with detached curiosity. It looked cheap. Made of scraps. Clearly not American. For a moment, he simply stared, letting the man process the full weight of his helplessness.

“You think this makes you a hero?” Homelander tilted his head, his smile sharp and cutting. He reached forward and gripped Amir by the collar, lifting him with no more effort than one would a feather. “You want to die, and then what? Think they’ll sing songs about you? Make statues in your honor? Nah-ah, Kebab. That’s just for guys like me. No one gives two fucks about another Camel Jockey going kaboom.”

Amir’s lips parted, but no words came out. He seemed torn between fear and confusion. The bravado that had carried him here was quickly unraveling. He stared at Homelander, breathless, trembling, perhaps realizing for the first time how very alone he was. This was it. He had failed in his mission and his supposed allies would not come to save him.

“Go on, then,” Homelander said, his tone mocking as he loosened his grip and allowed Amir’s feet to touch the ground. “Do it. Prove me wrong.”

Amir stood, still frozen, his eyes darting from the crowd in the distance to the towering figure in front of him. He didn’t move to pick up the trigger from where it dangled in Homelander’s hand, nor did he run. His mouth opened, words catching in his throat.

“What’s the matter?” Homelander smirked, amused by Amir’s paralysis. “I thought you were ready to be a hero.”

“You… you don’t understand,” Amir finally managed, his voice weak. “You’ve destroyed everything. My family, my town—my sister—”

Homelander raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching, as if hearing the punchline to a joke. “Oh, I understand plenty. Trust me. I just don’t think you do. Here’s a reality check: your death isn’t going to change a damn thing.” His voice lowered, laced with something between pity and disdain. “All you’re doing is giving us another excuse. Another headline, another reason to call you savages and justify tearing your country apart.”

Amir’s face twisted, disbelief battling with anger. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I dunno. I just think it’s fucking hilarious.” Homelander’s grin spread, wide and unsettling. “I mean, let’s say you go through with it. They’ll report it on the news— ‘Rebels threaten peace process with barbaric attack .’ You know what that means, don’t you? More guns, more bombs, more soldiers.” He tossed the trigger mechanism from one hand to the other, enjoying the way Amir’s eyes followed it. “In fact, if you die, you’re doing us a favor.”

“That’s not… that’s not true,” Amir whispered, but his voice was faltering, the resolve slipping through the cracks.

Homelander chuckled. “You don’t believe me? Look around, kid. It's not our people you're gonna fucking massacre, it's yours. And, newsflash, we don't care. We’re here for power, for control. And you—” he jabbed a finger at Amir, making the man flinch—“you’re just another expendable pawn in the game.”

Amir stared back, a storm of emotions flickering in his eyes—fear, anger, shame. Homelander could see it all, the collapse of those lofty promises that Hassan guy had woven, and he savored it. He could feel his own sense of weariness melting into something else, something that almost felt like pleasure as he watched the hope drain from Amir’s face.

“Go on, prove me wrong,” Homelander taunted. “Blow yourself to pieces, just like they told you to. Or—” he smiled, voice dropping to a whisper, “you could live. Walk away. Show them you’re not some mindless weapon.”

Amir’s gaze dropped to the trigger dangling from Homelander’s fingers, and a visible tremor ran through him. He had no words, and when Homelander let the trigger fall to the ground, Amir didn’t reach for it. Homelander took a step back, folding his arms as he watched the boy’s internal battle rage on, the wavering resolve, the remnants of his fragile convictions crumbling.

“You think you’re gonna change anything by throwing your life away? That your death will make a difference, touch the hearts of millions? Wake the fuck up. The world doesn’t care. You’ll be gone, and it’ll keep spinning. Your sister—she’s fighting a lost battle. No lie there. But at least she’s fighting to live.”

Amir’s expression tightened at the mention of Noura, his fingers curling into fists. He didn’t move. He stood rooted in place, his eyes fixed on the ground, the weight of his decision bearing down on him. His gaze flickered to the trigger mechanism lying between them, glinting faintly under the dim alley light.

Homelander observed him, arms still folded, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he seemed almost patient, as if giving Amir the time to decide was just as important as the decision itself. There was something unsettling in the calmness of his gaze, a silent dare in the way he looked at Amir—like he knew which choice the man would make and didn’t care which way it went.

Silence stretched. Homelander’s mouth curved in a barely-there smile. “Well?” he asked, voice dangerously soft.

The market square bustled with life. Vendors called out, selling spices, sweets, and toys, their voices mingling with the chatter of families and children darting between stalls.

In the shadows near an old fountain, Amir stood still, hidden in the fading light. His jacket was zipped up, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. His lungs seemed to tighten with every passing second. He could feel the trigger pressed against his hand, slick with sweat. He looked out over the crowd, his heart pounding erratically. Faces blurred before him as he tried to steady his breathing, to silence his racing thoughts.

They have to know.

Amir swallowed, a tremor running through his hand as he hesitated. He stared at the families moving about in blissful ignorance. Hassan’s words echoed in his mind, drowning out his fear with a strange numbness.

They have to pay.

As he unzipped his jacket slowly, exposing the vest, the numbness wavered. A distant, haunted look clouded his eyes. He took a step forward anyway, his lips pressed tightly together. Panic rippled through the crowd as people caught sight of the explosives, gasps turning to shrieks. The square erupted into chaos as they scattered, pushing past one another in their haste to escape.

Then, he heard it—a voice cutting through the noise, through the panic, calling out his name.

“Amir!” Noura’s voice pierced the air as she fought against the tide of people fleeing the square. Her eyes locked on him, wide and filled with a terror. She pushed forward, her feet pounding against the stone, the sound drowned out by the screams around them.

“Don’t do this!” she yelled as she reached him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Amir, look at me!”

He turned, the fear etched across his face deepening as he met her gaze. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words. His mouth opened, but his voice was choked. “I have to, Noura,” he finally whispered, barely audible above the clamor. “They… they need to pay for everything. For what they did to us. To you.”

Tears spilled down Noura’s cheeks as she took his trembling hands, pulling them away from the button. “Amir, no. This won’t bring anyone back. It won’t change what happened to our home. You’ll just destroy yourself,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Please, come home with me. Just… come home. No one has to die.”

Her words cut through the haze clouding his mind. For a brief moment, he felt the weight of the trigger slacken in his grip. He looked down at his sister, the pain in her eyes pulling him back, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in so long. Doubt crept in. He began to loosen his hold, his fingers trembling as they slipped from the device.

A soft beep started, then—a ticking sound so faint it was nearly lost in the chaos.

“What… what’s happening?” Noura’s voice trembled, her eyes darting to the bomb as the ticking grew louder. Panic flared in her gaze. She looked back up at Amir, her hands clutching his with increasing urgency. “Amir, stop it! Turn it off!”

Amir’s face paled, realization dawning on him as he stared down at the device strapped to his chest. “I… I don’t know how,” he stammered. His fingers fumbled helplessly as he tried to silence the countdown. A sickening dread twisted in his stomach as he realized the truth. “They… they detonated it remotely. Noura, I can’t turn it off—”

“No,” she gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. “No, they wouldn’t...”

Amir forced himself to swallow his panic, his hand shooting out to push her back. “Noura, you have to go! Now!” He tried to pull away, his heart hammering as he looked into her tear-filled eyes. His voice choked. “I can’t—there’s no time. You have to leave, now!”

Noura didn’t move. Her hands tightened around his, as if holding on could somehow keep him safe. As if her mere presence could change what was inevitable. She shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m not leaving you, Amir.”

Just as she spoke, a shadow passed over them, cast long and dark across the ground.

A sharp crackle split the air, a sudden burst of energy and movement descending like a lightning bolt. Noura felt the rush of wind an instant before he landed. Dust and pebbles scattered at his feet, the red, white, and blue of his suit a sharp, blinding presence against the dimness of the square.

Homelander.

Noura’s heart seized. She froze, her mind struggling to comprehend the sight before her. He stood just a few steps away, his figure too bright, too strong, like a character forced into the wrong scene. For a second, all the noise around her faded, the murmurs and cries of the crowd dimmed to silence. Time seemed to stop, everything narrowing down to the three of them—her, her brother, and this terrible force standing between them.

Homelander’s eyes flicked to Amir, then to her. She could see his gaze drop to the vest Amir wore, his brow furrowing slightly, as if calculating, assessing. Noura didn’t know whether to move forward or back. All her instincts screamed for her to run, but her feet were anchored to the ground.

Her eyes locked with his, and for a split second, there was something almost human in his expression—confusion, a question. What are you doing here? Then it was gone, his face shifting back into the detached, unreadable mask she had come to despise.

“Step back,” he said, his voice a quiet, controlled force. It was a command, not a suggestion.

She opened her mouth to protest, but she found herself speechless, unable to form words. Amir, wide-eyed and trembling, seemed just as paralyzed. Before she could blink, Homelander reached forward, grabbing Amir by the collar with a hand as casual as if he were lifting a bag. Noura’s heart lurched, and her hand shot out, but her fingers barely brushed Amir’s arm as Homelander lifted him effortlessly into the air.

“What… what are you doing?” she whispered, her voice shaking, eyes locked onto her brother’s terrified face. “Please, stop!”

Homelander didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on Amir, his expression cold. Noura reached out, as if to pull her brother back from the edge of something dark and final, but Homelander moved faster than she could even blink. In a flash of movement, he was gone.

He shot up into the sky with Amir, a streak of red and blue vanishing into the darkness above. The force of his departure sent a rush of wind through the square, scattering dust and debris, throwing Noura back. She stumbled, her eyes wide, her gaze fixed on the disappearing figures as they climbed higher and higher, shrinking into dots against the night.

“No!” she screamed, her voice swallowed by the wind. Her heart pounded in her ears. She stared up, waiting for a sign, for anything to bring her brother back.

The night held its breath.

Then, it happened—a brilliant, fiery burst of light exploded above her, illuminating the sky like a second sun. The shockwave rippled down, shaking the buildings, rattling windows, throwing Noura to the ground. The roar of the blast echoed, loud and terrible, reverberating through her bones. She watched, her heart seized in horror, as the fireball bloomed in the sky, its glow lingering against the darkness.

Noura’s throat closed, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the explosion faded into silence, leaving only a shimmering trail of smoke. She lay motionless, her mind blank, the reality settling in with a crushing weight.

Her brother was gone.

16 notes · View notes

mmogurl · 5 months ago

Text

This. Was. Amazing!

The Lucky Winner

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 8.5k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Pre-season 1. Voice kink. Oral sex. Unprotected sex.

Summary: You're a huge fan of Homelander but you always feel too awkward to ever meet your hero at a meet & greet or similar events. Your friends enter you into a Vought competition, where you've got a chance to win a phone call from Homelander himself.

Author’s Note: My first Homelander fic! Also, this is the first time I’m publishing my work. Obligatory English isn’t my first language so apologies if there are any strange turns of phrase but I happily take on criticism so feel free to correct me. I want to get better! I’m also not very good with sticking to the right tense. This is very self-indulgent so read with caution.

You can’t decide whether to hug or strangle your friends. They’re trying to be nice, you get that. But this goes against everything you’d ever do! Lovely as they are, they’ve entered you into a competition to meet your hero. To meet Homelander. The thought alone makes your head spin, your heart pound and stomach twist on itself.

‘It was just 20 bucks, what’s the worst that can happen? You win?’ Reads your friend’s message. You roll your eyes, hearing the teasing tone in your head. They know about your not-so-hidden obsession and at the end of the day they just wanted to brighten their friends day.

And sure, you are a fan. Okay, fine. You’re a big fan. Obsessed even. Every-wall-of-your-bedroom adorned-with-posters-and-promotional-materials obsessed. But you don’t want to appear like that. Last thing you’d want to come across as to your idol, you hero, is an annoying screeching fan begging for his attention.

You don’t want to be part of the crowds pawing at him, inching as close as they can just to graze his uniform with their fingertips. You don’t want to look like a feral fan. You have manners. You don’t want to be just another face, just another adoring fan begging for him to look your way. It’s hard to admit to yourself that you’ll never be more than a fan. So you don’t go to meet & greets. You don’t go to premieres. You don’t pay exorbitant fees just to meet your hero.

You’re a romantic at heart. You always imagine the first meeting to be one for the books. Maybe he saves you from a burning building flying you down, his stars and stripes billowing in the wind as he looks at you with concern etched into his handsome face, his piercing blue eyes scanning you for injuries as he talks to you with a soothing rumbling tone that sends shivers down your spine. You can clearly imagine him going, Are you okay miss?, as he descends to the ground. Or you just happen to bump into each other but he catches you with his strong arms and fast reflexes and just like that it’s love at first sight. Scenarios after scenarios. All varieties of ‘meet-cute’s play in your head on a daily basis. You spend your time getting lost in your head, dreaming of the day when it will be your turn to be the protagonist of the story. When will you be the damsel in distress? But you sigh and move on with life, because this isn’t a romance novel.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself (and others) when people ask you why you haven't tried to meet your hero.

Oh I just don’t want to be a weird obsessive fan. Plus it’s expensive!

Meeting heroes is technically easy. Vought gives people many opportunities to see their heroes for a pretty penny. They parade their heroes around like exotic animals in a zoo on a daily basis.

For you the reality is that you simply can’t handle seeing your hero up close and personal, let alone talk to him. How are you not meant to get flustered in front of what you considered to be perfection? How are you meant to find your words or even come up with words worthy of being uttered in his presence? You’re meant to look into his eyes, tell him how much of a fan you are and not fluster and burst into tears from the anxiety coiling in your gut as you wait your turn?

You don’t want that. You don’t want to be just another babbling fan. You want to stand out. You want him to remember you. You want him to think about you. But you’re also a realist and you know that at most he’ll think you just another annoying fangirl if he even grants you a passing thought. So you spare yourself those hurt feelings and you avoid meet & greets, you avoid all the fan-targeted conventions, events, promotional campaigns or competitions.

Or you always have. Until now it seems. You again scroll up in the group chat where your friends surprised you with an entry to the newest competition Vought advertised. It was presented as a fundraiser. All proceeds are planned to be donated to Samaritan’s Embrace. A simple $20 entry that would grant you a chance to be one of five lucky winners to get a personal phone call from Homelander.

A fat chance of that, you thought when you first saw the competition announced on both Vought’s and Homelander’s twitter accounts. With a competition that invites Homelander's country-wide fanbase, there really is no chance of you winning. You half-comfort yourself with that thought. You don’t know where you’d even start should you win. Part of you thinks that maybe ‘meeting’ him over the phone could be bearable as he wouldn’t be able to witness just how badly you’re holding it together.

But then you think back to all the videos you’ve watched. The reels and the tiktoks you’ve saved. The podcasts and interviews that at this point you play almost religiously. He's perfect in every way but you're particularly fond of his voice just rumbling in your ear when it gets nice and low as he talks in lengths about the upcoming movie or his most recent save. A while back you bought yourself a decent set of noise-cancelling headphones with great audio quality and suddenly it felt like he was right behind you just purring into your ears. Very few interviews record with good enough microphones to capture how mesmerising his voice is but those that do get saved and played on repeat sending shivers down your spine, following you to bed and invading your dreams. So no, maybe a phone call wouldn’t make the experience any easier on your poor heart.

You calm down after the initial panic reaffirming yourself with the reality where there’s no chance that you’ll get picked anyway. You text your friends again, kindly thanking them for thinking of you as you shook your head with an amused smile. That’s that done and forgotten about.

Or so you think. Few weeks down the line the mental discourse has long left your mind. The conversation moves on and your friends don’t mention anything since. That’s why it’s no surprise when you pick up the unknown call after the third ring with ease, casually answering with, “Hello, Y/N speaking.”

Homelander looks through the list of winners Ashley brought to his desk with a scowl on his face. He’s grumpy, having to jump through everyone’s hoops is grating on him, slowly chipping away at his showmanship armour. This is just another nail in the coffin. Now he has to make private phone calls?

He wants to be revered, loved. With people bending over backwards just to get his attention. Sure, that’s right up his alley. Get the crowds to scream his name, be grateful for his divine presence. What he isn’t a fan of is making others think they’re special. He’s the special one. Where does Vought get off thinking that he’s got the time to call and visit his fans one-on-one.

He rolls his eyes looking through the unimpressive line-up that Vought carefully curated. One of each demographic, trying to hit all the targets Vought wants him to improve his numbers with.

Each candidate has a sheet of talking points assigned to them, things to highlight, mention or even promote to each one of the fans. Normally Homelander would throw Vought’s carefully crafted response straight back to their faces but right now he’s not in the slightest interested in being clever or the fans' idea of ‘authentic’ so he’d rather rattle off a few lines from a curated list of party lines. At the end of the day he doesn’t care for this. Talking to five individual fans doesn’t help him in the grand scheme of things. This isn’t happening in public, there’s no one here to witness his generosity. Nobody to witness a god, looking down and gracing his followers with his benevolence.

Vought believes the individual approach will be worth it in the long run. That apparently fans will come running to any future events and competitions seeing as real people they might know have won in the past. All Homelander sees is at most five twitter mentions from a few nobodys.

He’s got about an hour in the calendar to get through all of these. Though he's banking on this taking a lot less time. There are many more important things he could be doing instead.

He flips through the files again, each profile is filled out with a name, number and a photo, deciding on the least painful order. A young boy, an elderly woman, a middle aged comic enthusiast, some punk teenager and you. Homelander looks at your profile with mild interest. You’re the only one who Vought didn’t manage to find a good quality recent photo of. Clearly you don’t do social media. Yet the quality doesn’t take away from the intrigue your profile inspired. You’re easily the most interesting in the list but that’s not that hard to do. Still, Homelander puts yours at the end of the list. Saving the best for last.

“Hellooo and congratulations! This is Homelander and you’re one of the few lucky cookies who get to have a little chit chat with me.” All air gets sucked out of your lungs and the ease with which you picked up the phone is gone. Your eyes widen, breath caught in your throat only coming out in confused little stutters. This isn’t real. It can’t be!

Whether it’s a particularly vivid dream or your world is actually turning upside down you’re glad this happened at home. Your knees buckle, your ass landing straight on your bed, your legs trembling with nervous energy as you sit down.

“W-what?” You manage to blurt out, more breathy than not. Your heart is pounding like never before. You wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it over the phone, it feels loud to your ears.

“The competition? You entered, right?” His voice. His fucking voice was right in your ear and you felt like melting into a puddle of goo. Anything to spare you the embarrassing words that are surely about to come out of your mouth one way or another.

“Oh… um…” You are blowing it. There’s no other word for it. Totally embarrassing yourself. Not able to say a word, still trying to calm your heart down.

“Are you not a fan? Have I got the wrong number–?”

“N-no no! No…I mean yes. I mean sorry…fuck.” You are totally losing it. The hand holding your phone is shaking with nervous energy.

“Hey hey hey…. Come on now. Take it easy. Now take a deep breath aaand relax.” His voice is rich and sweet like honey, just like you’ve heard on TV but here it feels intimate. Just for you. He’s not talking to anybody else. As he hears your stuttered intake of breath and a mildly calmed exhale he coos again. “That’s it. Breathe with me. Now in.” If only he knew that this is making things so much worse for you. “And out.”

“I’m so sorry. I meant to say, I am a fan but I don’t do this.” Your voice still trembles with each word but you’re a little more composed.

“What? Call people?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, he's clearly pleased with his little joke.

“No.” You can’t help yourself but chuckle, your lips spreading in a wide grin. Your heart is still pounding but it’s more excitement than embarrassment. You’re actually talking to Homelander. And you have already embarrassed yourself beyond belief but he’s still here! He’s still talking to you. He doesn’t even sound upset. “I mean I don’t meet you guys. Heroes. I don’t really know how to do this. I mean I pretty much live on your doorstep and I’ve never met either one of you.” Now that he calmed you down, getting you talking, you can’t stop talking.

“Really? Some fan you are.” Were you of a sound mind you’d hear the joke but now all you could think is that you’ve upset him. And you can’t have him think that. Sure you’ve always wanted to stand out but not in a negative way! You take it to heart and you apologize.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to offend. At all! Really! It’s just, you don’t need another person begging for an autograph that they can brag with to their friends or sell online for a quick buck.”

He exhales a little breathy laugh that has your whole body flush hot. “Oh, aren’t you adorable.” The panic that was inflating in you like a hot air balloon finally fizzled out. Instead it’s replaced by a throbbing heat in between your legs and you place your free hand over your heart, almost trying to will your body into behaving normally. “You know if you want I can send you some, would be a shame for such a sweet fan to not have anything personalised. I’ll sign it with your name.” He offers, a nice gesture, really, but you are currently having a whole body meltdown to even appreciate it for what it was.

“O-oh,that isn’t—You don’t have to—”

He continues nonetheless.

“Y/N, is it? Beautiful name.” Your name rolls off his tongue perfectly, all soothing and sweet. And there you go, melting into a puddle just for him.

“You don’t have to be nervous. I don’t bite. At least, not over the phone.” You let your hand trail down your body. He’s just talking. He’s just making jokes. He’s just trying to strike up a conversation to make such a freaked out fan of his a little calmer and there you are getting your rocks off on this.

“Sorry. It’s hard not to be. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long while. I didn’t expect I’d ever get to talk to you. It’s kind of you to do things like this for us fans. I’m sure you’re busy. Thank you for taking the time.” You distract yourself from the throbbing that’s just calling for your hand to settle heavily in between your shaking thighs.

“Oh no problem. Wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for all my loyal fans, right?” You should really stop moving your hand down your body. But you can’t help the effect he has on you, you’re not acting normal!

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s the fame that makes you special. It’s you.” You breathe you all dreamy before realising this isn’t just one of your fantasies. No. You really are talking to Homelander. You cough a little, pretending like you had something stuck in your throat.

“It is?”

“I think so. Change into civilian clothing and I’m sure you’ll still be turning heads.” You speak normally now but you bite your lip at the end, your hand now just above your pubic bone.

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this plenty.” Oh, of course you have. Your body is screaming at you to take the plunge, to slip your hand down your panties, and make yourself feel like this is more than just a friendly fan call. But your mind is, correctly, telling you that this is beyond inappropriate.

“Ah no! I just mean that you’re perfect at what you do. There’s nobody like you. Noone could take your spot. So it’s more than just fans.” You’re surprised you’re still carrying on. You feel like your brain is turning into mush with each word he’s saying.

“What can I say? I take my job very seriously.” He goes on to talk about being a leader of the Seven, you guess he’s just trying to fill space seeing as you’re such a blubbering mess. Even with all his efforts at making this normal, your brain turns all the innocent words into the filthiest dirty talk.

“Look, I’d love to talk to you some more but I’m afraid I’ll have to end it there. I’m late for a talk show interview.” You retract your hand as if it got burnt and instead you grab onto the comforter you’re sitting on, stopping yourself from doing anything impulsive.

“O-of course.” Your heart rate is elevated again, something about the thought of him leaving and you never getting the chance to speak to him again makes you want to scream.

“Tell you what, I don’t want to be unfair to you. You hardly got your prize. I’ll call you later. You free in the evening?”

“Y-yes.”

“Perfect.”

Perfect. You’re fucking perfect. Homelander can’t stop the way his lips stretch into a predatory grin. You are exactly what a fan should be like. Swooning over him. Grateful that he’s even bothering to grace you with his presence. You were practically kneeling, bent over before him on the floor, kissing his feet as he gave you a taste of his divine presence. He has half a mind to take care of the uncomfortable hard-on pressing into his rigid suit. He couldn’t help himself when you were being such a sweet little thing. He feels no remorse at having rubbed himself through his suit as you were there on the other side of the phone, undeniably shaking in excitement, all flustered and tense and most certainly aroused. But no, he wants to wait his turn. He needs the real thing. He’s not planning on letting you go that easy.

Originally he was pissed that most of his time on the phone was taken up by the elderly woman who was talking his ear off. Now he’s thinking about sending her a gift basket. He has a real excuse to see you.

When Homelander wants something he’s like a hunter, doing everything he can to lure his prey into his trap. In this case he abuses his powers to get the Crime Analytics team to dig up your address and in the meanwhile he sits through a mind-numbingly boring interview at a low-tier talk show he really shouldn’t need to waste his time on.

The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that you might be watching. You seem like a big fan. You surely wouldn’t dare miss out on his live appearances. The thought alone gives him enough drive to not laser through the talk show host everytime she asks a stupid question and instead he imagines he’s speaking straight to you.

When the show is over he takes off before his team can steer him towards another boring chore. No, he has more pressing matters to attend to. Like any good predator he observes. He waits until it’s the right time to strike. That’s why he’s perched at the top of the building that’s opposite yours. He’s got a clear line of sight to your apartment but he’s careful in making sure you can’t see him.

He watches, his grin reappearing every damn time he sees you reach your phone, checking if your ringer is on for the tenth time. You are an easy target, he can swoop in anytime and sweep you off your feet but he wants it to be perfect. With sick fascination he keeps watching you, your behaviours and patterns as you pace around your room trying to preoccupy your mind with mindless thoughts. He knows that nothing you do can now fill the void that he left behind. What else can replace the purr of his voice in your ear, soothing and exciting you at the same time. Nothing. There’s nobody like him. You said it yourself.

An hour of self-indulgent watching later he decides to end your misery. You just look so upset and disappointed and he knows you’ll just melt in his presence. He needs to be close to you. He got a little sprinkle of what you're like over the phone and now he’s got a craving for the real thing. He needs to feel you, smell you, hear your poor heart trying to keep up with the excitement right in his ear.

So with a quick drop he descends.

The day has gone by torturously slow for you. You spend every minute checking your phone in case your ringer randomly fails you and you won’t catch the second call from Homelander. Just thinking that makes your thighs quiver. The thought of having him purr into your ear any longer wets your panties all over again. But over the coming hours your enthusiasm deflates. It’s getting late and your chances of ever getting a call back are low.

You emerge from the bathroom, fresh and clean, in your pyjamas ready to sleep today’s rollercoaster of emotions away. Or you would be if it wasn’t for a knock at your balcony door interrupting your thoughts and making you flinch in surprise. The flash of red and blue still so vibrant and colourful against the midnight sky has your breath catching in your throat. What the fuck?!

You open the balcony door in shock, and if you had the strength to do so you would have ripped it off its hinges with pure eagerness. There he is in all his patriotic glory. Homelander. A wide grin on his face, posture ramrod straight as he clasps his gloved hands behind his back, puffing his chest out.

“H-Homelander?!” Your voice quivers at the proximity, your heart picks up speed again and you feel your entire body flush both in embarrassment and excitement. Your first thought goes to how you currently look rather than questioning his motives or how he even found where you live in the first place.

Trying to regain your composure you shake your head, blinking as if he was just a figment of your imagination. Maybe your devout obsession with him is finally damaging your mental state, making you hallucinate.

“Good evening, Y/N.” God, how does he do that! The way your name slips off his tongue so easily, with such familiarity makes you clench and part your lips with a gasp. Any sort of composure you’ve regained crumbling to dust. Now you are just awkwardly gawking, in awe at the unreal figure in front of you, in the flesh. Homelander doesn’t wait to be invited in, strutting into your modest apartment like it belongs to him, the confident strides of his red boots loud and heavy against the creaky floor of your apartment. He takes up the living space confidently, somehow making you feel like you don't belong in your own space. His presence took priority, anything else secondary—you included.

“How did you—” Your question of how he found where you live doesn’t even get fully asked, let alone answered. He cuts in, not actually caring about your justified worry over having your address handed out willy-nilly.

“Our call was a bit too short to my liking. You don’t mind a little late-night visit, do you?” You feel disarmed. His voice turns gravelly, lowering with each word. His tone teasing as if he was telling you a secret, so unlike his television persona where he’s all American apple pie values and open arms with clear intentions. Here, he grinned widely—all teeth with his sharp canines bared to you like the predator he is. Like you’re his next meal. “Ohohoo, would you look at this. Maybe you are my biggest fan, huh?”

You are distracted by his voice, his presence, just him that you fail to notice his eyes wandering around your apartment. Your face flushes red in embarrassment as you see him assessing your safe space, or what felt like your safe space before this ambush, all with an amused grin on his face.

“These are all limited edition. Must have cost you a small fortune.” Holding a breath you watch him take his gloves off one by one, placing the leather on your table with a soft thwack. It feels forbidden, not meant for your eyes. The public doesn’t get to see Homelander as anything other than perfect. His image manicured, perfected to the tiniest details. Seeing his surprisingly elegant bare hands, this up close feels intimate yet threatening like he’s unsheathed his sword, revealing one of the many hidden weapons he can use against you.

You watch as he brushes his fingers against limited edition action figurines, box sets, posters and trinkets featuring his likeness or the logo emblem Vought associates with him. If it was anyone else you’d tell them to keep their paws away from your most prized possessions but it's Homelander. Who else gets the right to touch special limited edition merchandise of his own likeness?

You watch as he paces the room with an unreadable expression. The embarrassment you feel transforms into an apology, heavy on your tongue as you force your mouth open, letting your shame out into the world. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed in his presence.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” He turns his head over his shoulder with a curious expression. A swoop of his blonde hair handsomely falling into his face. He puts down one of the figurines he picked up earlier as he scouted the area.

“All this stuff.” You wave your hand around, the grand display of what can only be described as the Church of Homelander, a shrine dedicated to his divine existence. You see how it looks, how it makes you look like a rabid fan. Though you’re anything but. “I know it’s a little strange. I don’t want to make you feel like a museum piece. Or-or-or a circus animal! I just admire you. A lot.”

“You do?”

“I do.” Your breath catches in your throat as he turns around fully, facing you head on, one slow step inching towards you at a time. You gulp, feeling like you’re left in the dark regarding his intentions as you hopelessly struggle to read him. On the opposite spectrum you’re there, an open book, your heart on your sleeve, your every thought written so clearly on your face you may as well give him your diary to flip through. “More than anything.” Breathlessly you add, meeting his eyes as a challenge. You’re devout, as loyal as it gets. You’d do anything for him if he asked.

Homelander rises to your mental challenge with a grin so sharp you feel the metaphorical bite coming before he even opens his mouth as he steps closer. He’s so close now. Any ordinary man could feel the thud of your heartbeat, but to his keen senses it’s a war drum and he’s marching to a battle he’s already won. His bare, elegant hands make their way to your jaw caressing it with a surprising gentleness. You flinch. Even though you watched it happen with wide eyes, you didn’t expect his hands to leave you unmarred. You almost expect your skin to sizzle, unworthy of his divine touch.

Homelander’s grin disappears, his tongue gliding along his teeth as if he’s cleaning them before he devours his next meal. All that leaves you is a little whimper before he pulls you in, his hands thrumming with incomprehensible strength as he kisses you. He kisses the air out of your lungs as if you could survive without it like he can. As if you could meet him in the middle. But dammit you do your best to. He’s a passionate kisser, incapable of sticking to soft kisses. No, he devours. He licks your lips open, his tongue gliding along yours. You brace your hands against his chest, already feeling weak in the knees. The heat of his breath and the wetness of his tongue in your mouth is nothing compared to how hot and wet you feel in your panties.

It doesn’t help that he’s vocal. You kiss him harder anytime he growls or moans into your lips, his voice vibrating against your lips just possessing you more. And soon it turns into a game of who can dish it out harder. Each devoted kiss makes him hum and purr which in turn melts you into a pile of goo, making you kiss him harder. Your lips feel hot, swollen from the ferocious kissing. You’re nearing the limit of what your lungs can manage without resurfacing for air.

Homelander pulls away but he doesn’t give you any time to recover. As if you could. How do you recover from that? Instead he’s adamant about making your heartbeat hit record heights. His hands glide down your body, featherlight touches that make your skin break out into goosebumps as he settles on your hips, trailing the waistband of your pants. His pink wet lips spread into another predatory smile and before you know it he leans closer to your ear, practically purring, “Tell me, if I take these off will I find you wearing Homelander panties too?”

Flustered squeak escapes you as he laughs wholeheartedly at your embarrassment. You know he knows. He’s teasing you for a reason. “They’re comfortable.” You eventually grumble, pouting like a child getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I bet they are.” He sinks down to one knee, his hands taking the waistband of your pants with him as he pulls them down over your thighs, letting the fabric pool by your ankles. He pats your ankle, prompting you to step out of them. You comply, kicking the fabric away earning a little word of praise from him. “Attagirl.” You’re visibly trembling as he kneels in front of you, his eyes locked on the sight of your blue panties with his emblem and name right across the middle in gold, all accentuated by a red trim. It would be far from sexy in any other circumstance but he purrs at the sight. All pleased like the cat that got the cream. “Got my name across your pussy all day long?”

Before you could react like any other person would, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. You yelp, losing your balance trying to grab onto his head or shoulders for support but he puts his arm on your back, sliding it right under your top keeping you straight and secure whether you want it or not. You’re not leaving until he says so. “Might as well fucking taste it seeing as it’s already mine, don’t you think?” He gives you a hungry look licking his lips before hoisting your other leg over his shoulder, standing up with ease. He walks you back against a wall as he eagerly inhales the scent of you, his head perfectly in between your warm thighs.

“Woah!” You stabilise yourself, finally having more surface to lean against. The fabric of your top glides along the surface of the glossy posters he has you pressed against. Making you the centerpiece, surrounding you with his likeness. You finally process what the fuck is happening as you feel his nose pressing into the soaked fabric of your panties. “Homelander! Y-you….ohh…” You whimper, your hands automatically finding comfort and safety in between his golden locks.

“Fuck you smell good.” Homelander growls, his hands now on your ass, holding you in place as he sticks his tongue out, pressing it wetly over your soaked panties. The taste of you already coating all his taste buds.

“O-oh fffuuck. OH god…yes…yes please.” You don’t stop yourself from moaning freely, the time for embarrassment long gone as Homelander lifts one hand from your ass, impatiently pulling the fabric of your Homelander panties to the side, his tongue already slipping in for a taste before his hand even makes it back to squeeze your ass. “Taste just as fucking good.” His voice strained, uttering filth in between your thighs.

His thick tongue pushes through the slit of your weeping pussy, lapping up what you’ve so graciously prepared just for him. And as you watch a mop of blonde hair greedily slurp at your wetness like he’s parched, you think back to the fantasies that drove you to orgasm after orgasm as the imaginary Homelander ate your pussy.

Well, for one the real thing is a lot more enthusiastic than you ever imagined him to be. He is sucking on your clit in rhythm that has you throb harder, making your toes curl. “Ohhh, Homelander!” You reward him with a loud moan of his name, like a prayer on your lips. And you repeat it with each masterful lick around your clit that has you squirming in his hold, legs quivering around his head, fingers tugging at his hair.

The second thing you never considered was how much his powers would come into play. Here he is with a deathly strong iron grip around your ass, easily holding you up on his shoulders against the wall while pushing you as close into his face as he can. The thought of not being able to escape his grip exhilarates you as much as it terrifies you. His lack of need for air makes him a perfect devout lover. Because this is pure devotion except it seems he forgot who was meant to worship who.

You’d be embarrassed by the obscene sounds you two are making if it didn’t feel so good. You moan for him prettily as he licks up all the wetness he’s coaxing out of you. You breath hitches as you feel your orgasm building. He's consistent, giving you just the right pressure. Homelander looks up at you, eyes glassy and blown back with lust before he swiftly repositions you, needing just one arm to make you feel weightless yet secure in his hold as he takes his free hand plunging two fingers into you revelling in the feeling of your cunt clenching around him.

“Oh there there there! Ahhh!” You guide him, his fingers pumping into you and with his tongue still working magic on your clit you whimper out, “oh fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna–.” You fall apart in his arms, cumming on Homelander’s tongue like you’ve imagined many times over. With you thrashing around you rip the poster right behind you unaware of the mess you’re leaving behind. He licks you through the waves crashing through you. He’s smug, you can feel the smirk against your pussy as he gives it one more kiss before easily slipping you off his shoulders, preening with satisfaction. “Mhmm you did so good.” His voice purred and even in your post-orgasm haze you flush with fresh heat at the praise.

He gives you time to compose yourself but you don’t want it. You want him. You need him. Your legs feel like jelly so you immediately sink to your knees, nuzzling your face into his crotch. Too eager to wait. Homelander cooed at your enthusiasm, “Look at that. Didn’t even have to tell you.” He chuckles, voice thick with lust, his lips and chin still glistening from the way he feasted on you.

Wobbly and out of your mind, you reach for his belt, unable to figure out how to unclasp it, your dexterity not quite there either to be able to wiggle the hem of his pants underneath it and pull them down.

You look up at him with the face of a kitten that’s not getting what it wants. Pouting and pleading for help.

“Christ, let me help you with that.” Homelander unclasps his belt, letting it hit the floor with a loud and heavy clang and the thought of it denting the cheap flooring doesn’t even graze your mind. He unzips his pants and the hiss alone makes your mouth water. He pushes his pants a little lower and you stare wide eyed at where his thematically red briefs are tented, his cock throbbing and leaking pre-cum into the thin fabric.

Okay, this you can do. Your hands slide up his thighs, getting a little feel of the bare skin of his thighs. Unmarred, smooth and hot. Your hand briefly squeezes around his cock through his briefs, forcing Homelander to hiss through his teeth. You pull down his briefs, bunching them down with the thick fabric of his suit.

You try not to stare and drool but you’ve imagined his cock in your dreams and fantasies so many times that seeing it in real life just kind of blows your fucking mind. It’s perfect. A bit longer than average but especially nice and thick. You lick your lips in anticipation. His hand rests on the back of your head, giving your hair a tug.

“You gonna keep staring or will you put those pretty lips to work?” His gruff tone tears you from the haze.

You blush, being caught staring. Wanting to please your hero you apologize, “sorry, it’s just so perfect. You’re perfect.” You breathe out in pure adoration.

“Come on then, be a good girl and open up for your hero. I want my cock wet before I slide it into that needy pussy.” He looks down at you with a sharp smile, his other hand rests on your jaw before moving up squeezing the hollow of your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. Not that he has to, you’re more than willing to deliver. You open wider, making his hand withdraw as you take matter into your own hands. Literally. You grip the base of his cock, feeling how hefty and hot it feels. It hits you in that moment that you’re holding Homelander’s cock. Fuck. You’re gonna be dreaming of this moment for years to come.

You look up, giving him one more doe-eyed look before you stick your tongue out easing the swollen red head in between your lips. The salty, musky taste of his pre-cum on your tongue makes you whimper, your eyebrows furrow with concentration as you focus on banking the memory of his taste in your head. Eagerly you get right into it. Down and dirty. You focus on him, coating him with an ungodly amount of saliva until anytime you pop off him you’re followed by strings of it connecting you two. His grunts and heavy breaths just urge you to do better. So you take him deeper, slurping around the saliva you've made for him, bobbing your head up and down.

You nearly lose your rhythm when he lets out such a needy wanton moan, making your pussy throb.

“Thaaat’s it, come on—fuck!—deeper, yeah yeaahh you got it sweetheart. God fuck that’s fucking it.” He’s nearly whimpering, so lost in the sensation. And you're eating it up. Each whimper and word goes straight to your pussy and at this point you wouldn't be surprised if you were making a puddle on the floor.

His hand forces your head down deeper and you gag, choking around him as for a second your nose bumps the neat thatch of hair above his cock. He's not easily dissuaded and he pushes again, a little softer this time. You almost feel the tremble of his hands, he's so close to unravelling. Just for you. The swell of pride pushes you forward and you take him deeper. He takes the chance to push both hands into your hair as he starts fucking your face.

“Take it. Take it.” He grunts, his voice more and more broken with every thrust. You're just about to push his thighs back, attempting to fight against his unyielding force but his hips stutter and he groans, letting out broken moans as he spills on your tongue.

As if on command you swallow and he pulls out, wiping the residual dribbles of cum on your lips. Now that he’s done you realise just how fucking badly your jaw aches. You whimper at the ache of your jaw and the ache between your legs.

You’re still kneeling on the floor, a picture of pure devotion, with your mouth messy and lips swollen. He grumbles at the picture in front of him. He pulls you up by your hair, kissing the taste of himself out of your lips. You can still taste your pussy on his lips and tongue as he shoves it into your mouth. “Bed?” He's somehow more than ready to continue and mentally you add his extraordinary refractory period to the list of his many talents.

You nod a broken, “y-yeah, this way,” the taste of him still heavy on your tongue as you lead him to your bedroom.

He lets out a little chuckle at the state of your bedroom, just as decorated with his brand as was the rest of your apartment. “Fuck me, you really are my biggest fan.”

You’re about to apologize, again, and he can read you like an open book already shushing you. “Shh, don’t say it. C’mere, take this off instead. Want to see you.” He tugs at your top, wanting you to take it off. Like unwrapping a present. You let out a few breathless ‘okay’s and pull the top over your head baring your entire body to him, save for the panties that were still uncomfortably pushed to the side. He clearly wants you to keep them on and you’re not sure whether that’s his narcissism or possessiveness talking. You don’t dare comment on the fact that he’s still fully dressed. You’re not gonna start demanding things from the Homelander now are you?

With a step closer he purrs, pushing you to the bed intensely watching as your tits bounce when your back hits the comforter. He follows as he lays over the top of you but he doesn't look at you. He picks up the grimacing Homelander plushie he sees on your pillow— the one that's predominantly advertised to kids. He holds it up for you to see with a raised eyebrow, the look almost condescending. “What? They make no other official plushies!” You defend yourself.

“Is there anything you don't have?”

You don't know what possessed you to answer, “yeah, you,” but Homelander eats it right up as he grins at you.

“Cheeky slut. Well you're about to. On your side.” He says sliding off you to rest on his side looking you up and down hungrily. You’re clearly surprised at his choice of position and he grumbles with annoyance as you take forever to move the way he wants you to. His impatience gets the best of him and he effortlessly manipulates you to your side, slotting right behind you. Homelander grips your inner thigh lifting your leg a little higher, as he nestles his cock right against your wet cunt.

You sigh with partial relief, feeling him solid against you feels good. Feeling him inside you would feel even better. “Jesus, you're still so fucking wet.”

“It's all your fault.” You whimper trying to wiggle in his unyielding hold. He just tuts at you gripping you tighter, cusping on pain.

He pulls you close, his cock sliding in between your slit, immediately getting the top of his cock wet. His lips trail up your jaw until he reaches your ear. He growls, low and sexy, nipping at the sensitive skin of your ear. Your heart skips a beat, your pussy throbs as the sound of him just ripples through you.

“Maybe it is. You know, I've been thinking. You're such a nervous little thing.” He grinds his hips into you, dragging his cock back and forth, teasing you. His voice got quiet, dropping a register lower. All slow and drawled out he continues rumbling in your ear clearly aware of what it's doing to you. “You were beside yourself when I called you. So there I am thinking nobody gets that nervous, not unless they’re trying to hide how fucking turned on they are.” He keeps fucking talking and talking, making you shiver to the point where you feel goosebumps rise all over you. Your breath ragged, your eyes fluttering shut.

You're starting to understand why he was particular about this position. After all, he could read you like a book from the get go.

“At first I thought it was just me because you're such a big fan.” He coos in a condescending tone. He licks the outer edge of your ear and you shriek, thrashing in his uncompromising hold. “But no no nooo. It's not that. Because everytime I spoke, your heartbeat sped up. You know, I was worried about you there for a minute. Then there was your pussy. You get so wet the air is thick with it. I can't even fucking breathe without tasting your sweet cunt.” You let out a broken sound, close to a sob, you pussy throbbing so hard he must feel it even without being inside you. You didn't even consider that his senses can easily sniff your secret out.

He’s still rubbing his cock in between your folds, sliding the whole length of it up and down. It’s slick and loud and so good and holy shit your clit is burning from the way his head catches on it with every thrust. You're so close and your body is on fire. You so desperately want to cum with something inside you but he’s cruel. He's not gonna give it to you just yet. “And look at that, you're still getting wetter. They do say it's always the unassuming ones.” He chuckles into your ear, low and vibrating against you.

“Is that it? Do you get off to the sound of my voice? Do you watch videos of me, listening to interviews while you finger your little pussy?” He's going harder, the wet sound of your pussy slicking his way in between your slit is deafening, embarrassingly loud. “Tell me.” The little command growls in your ear and you force your lips open.

“Y-yes! Yes….I-I find your voice sexy.” You admit to your little shameful secret. You admit that one of the reasons you never met him was because you didn't want to get sopping wet in a crowd full of screaming fans. “Don't stop, please.” You moan out, quiet and broken, your embarrassment making way to pure pleasure. Now that it's out in the open, what is there to hide?

“Do you even care what I say? Huh? I could be reading out the fucking phone book and your pussy would still get wet. Greedy little thing. What’s it gonna be? You gonna cum to my voice or are you gonna be difficult?” You're burning hot, your body so so tense, the leg he's hitched up a little trembling against his strong grip. His cock is still hitting your clit in the perfect fucking way and you're so so so close.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop! Oh fuck, Homelander—don’t—ahhh!” The dam bursts, a wave of pleasure sweeping over you as you scream. Homelander pulls back and with one deft stroke he slides his cock inside you. He doesn't move. He growls at the feeling of your cunt just pulsing against him. He's so thick inside you, stretching you wide, filling every crevice.

He whimpers and you feel how tense he is holding off the orgasm threatening to burst inside him.

Just as you think this must be the end of it, your mind just a buzzing noise, he pulls out moving back and he pushes you on your back.

You never expected him to be so active in bed but he's already in between your legs, his hands clamping down on the clammy flesh of the back of your thighs and he spreads you open. He's on his knees, his hands slide and curl from the back of your thighs to the top as he pulls you in, slowly sliding his cock into you in one push.

He doesn't wait for anything. He just fucks you. Hard and fast, really getting himself off more than you. Surrounded by posters and merch all carrying his likeness while he plunges into you again and again. Your hair is plastered to your forehead as you watch your hero utterly ruin you. You're sweaty, absolutely spent and tired while he's pushing into you without breaking a sweat.

This round isn't for you yet it's gonna be a memory you'll frequent the most. The look on his face, pure lust and torture as he's fucking you with as much strength as he allows himself.

With how he's got your hips propped up he's managing to hit all your best spots as your overstimulated nerves light up, giving him one last finish, your pussy’s quivers pushing him over the edge as well.

Then there's a little hot spurt of him inside you but you're surprised when he pulls out shooting most of his load with a few strokes of his fist all over your panties and stomach.

“Ahh fuck. Look at that, finally got your first autograph.” He snorts, amused, admiring the sight in front of him. His cum has already soaked into your panties, the ‘Homelander’ text changing into a darker colour as both his cum and your slick from the previous round drench the fabric.

You flush hot red and you shake your head, amused by his antics. “That's disgusting.” But strangely, you're charmed.

“I should take a picture. You look great like this.”

He notes as he slides off your bed pulling his briefs over his finally softening cock, tucking himself back into his suit.

“Stay?” You say softly, offering him the space for his benefit more than yours. Even though you'd like him to stay for a cuddle you know you'll be out of it in a minute.

“Can't do I'm afraid, duty calls.”

You nod, understanding. “Thank you, I really feel like a winner.” You snorted, thinking back to how the day even started.

He looks at you almost fondly, but your orgasm-hazy brain might just not be working anymore.

“Until next time.” He says as a goodbye and you end up tucking yourself into bed. The last thing you hear is the click of his belt he picked up from the living room, the creak of the leather gloves he slides back on and the sonic boom of him flying away.

And you know that when you wake up if it wasn't for your ruined panties, your throbbing cunt or even the ripped poster in the living room you wouldn't believe any of it was real.

You sure hope there will be a next time.

[Part 2]

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plasticfangtastic · 1 year ago

Text

American Royalty ch. 5

A Homelander X F! Reader and Dadlander fic.

A/N: prev. chapters available in my pin post, if ya like to be added to my taglist feel free to drop a comment with a request. I wanted to post this tomorrow but yeah am a liar with ADHD UwU.

Tags: mild gore, angsts, lots of angst, slow burn, fluff, oc characther, child neglect, dadlander, romance... i guess i should also say unhealthy/toxic relationship.

Chapter five

Thick lines.

Ryan and Helena were exhausted, most of the obstacle course had been partially destroyed, the walls damaged quite severely, and the ceiling was dented, Homelander had learned two things: 1) Ryan holds back too much– too afraid to harm, too afraid to break things, too afraid of his own powers as if they would come right-back around and harm him, and 2) Helena’s forcefield could take a beating, it had taken Ryan quite a bit of rage for it to start cracking, the girl continued to taunt hi, calling him inept, throwing insults without care before it cracked down.

She had learned her limits, making notes for future reference.

So here he was putting pressure on her arm, as she bled profusely.

Ryan was crying blaming himself, while Homelander took her to the labs. The girl didn’t cry much, seemingly just angry, only wincing as her father squeezed her arm with curses in her lips.

You had run out of the kitchen, guards refusing you entry to the labs, while you demanded entry Homelander had emerged and ordered them to step aside, throwing daggers at them as he took your hand.

You cried as you saw the bandages on her arm, you cried harder when she wrapped her arms around you, bawling and shaking underneath them.

Homelander calmly explained that she ended up with twenty stitches and some blood transfusion, but she was fine, no bone had been touched and her body was healing slowly.

You barely listened.

When was the last time you saw her cry? She was a quiet baby, a perfect baby, by the time she could talk, crying seemed redundant when she could simply spell it out for you.

“What did you do!?” You picked your child, retreating from him– I fucking qu–

“It was my fault…” Ryan said drying his sobs– I’m sorry.”

“It was an accident. The kids got a little heated during training… I should’ve stepped in earlier.”

Homelander took Ryan under his arm.

You stared at the kid, then back at your own.

“Helena did you–” You stroke her back– Sorry that my daughter antagonized you… It won’t happen again.”

Your voice was quiet, unable to look at either child.

“Let’s go get your stuff. My apologies, Homelander but I won’t be able to continue my work today. She won’t be a cause of future concern…” You wanted to quit and leave this tower forever.

He lets you go, no doctor tried stopping you either, but you wouldn’t let your daughter stay at Vought, a nurse informed you to come back to change the bandages in two days but you rather take her to an actual hospital.

You looked at him knowing he was going to come around.

Coffee already on the stove and biscuits on the table already waiting for him.

“How is she?” He was genuine.

“She says it's too itchy… but her arm is alright.” you scratch at your head.

“You look tired.”

“I haven’t slept for almost a decade… that’s just my face now.”

“You didn’t quit.” He sat beside you on the big round-table, turning pale as you saw him sit on his cape, his eyes reddened as he tried to look calm– are you quitting?”

“I dunno. Helena can be pretty abrasive. I’m sorry your son fell for it, she doesn’t mean it… she just thinks that people are going to be cruel, so she’s cruel first.”

“Why?” He presses taking a quick glance at the livingroom and the misplaced toys.

“Try being in a classroom full of teenagers and be the smartest one in the whole room, they just see a smug midget who thinks she’s better than anybody else– they’re mean… kids in general are mean… but she eventually just scares them enough… there were other kids she’d hurt, nothing too severe.”

You stayed in silence not knowing if you should ask him to leave or not. If you should let him be privy of those events.

“She knows.”

“You!”

“She either figured it out or used her powers to find out.” He rested his elbow on the table stroking his tired eyes– I didn’t tell her but she would’ve noticed there was something going on.”

You yawned, taking a couple sips of coffee as he copied you. The silence unbearable and your eyes heavy and aching, gawking at him made you think of her.

“Your eyes and lips are identical.” That was an unusual smile on your face– when she was born that was the first thing I noticed, the second was that mop of hair on her head… she had so much hair and it was so long, but those were your eyes… sadly, you know I always thought your nose was your best feature but she got mine.”

You stood up asking him to follow you to the living room with a finger, taking a seat on the same sofa you refused to throw away.

“Tell me about her… Becca never had the chance… I cleaned that house and found pictures and trinkets, but without the stories I can only speculate. I don’t know his first words, the first time he walked, his first time riding a bike… I don’t know anything. She never wanted to tell me.” He leaned closer, his hand close to yours but never touching– Ryan is sorry, he was quite shaken.”

“Her first word was ‘morning’.” You spoke wanting to indulge, wanting to seem better for some reason.

You told him stories, there had been a time when you fantasized sharing all these moments with him, when you were younger and stupider. When you two began to get too serious, when he had called you baby, darling and honey with genuine affection, when you watched him sleep and caressed his hair awake. You’d dreamed of drinking wine while your kids slept by his side at one point and in this forced intimacy you could be as deluded as he was just in case he was holding something nefarious over your head.

You let him know about her silly things, about her first love… the chemistry set you bought her when she was five. About how she lived in their local library and everybody knew her by name, about how some of the kids expected her to become Brooklyn’s finest, about her hatred of pistachio and strong emotions about bird keeping.

You never expected to talk to him like this after everything, but today has been a rollercoaster and you simply hadn't been in you to fight, not now when your daughter knew, you were doing this to yourself so you couldn’t fight it, you gave him morsels and crumbs because you had no one to talk about this things.

“Is Ryan alright?” You asked leaning away from him, the night was so dark and only the kitchen in the back lit the house– it must’ve been so scary.”

“He was pretty shaken. Took me a lot to get him to stop crying…”

“Helena won’t hold any grudges… I think… I got an idea… has Ryan ever been to Coney Island? Maybe we can take the kids to the boardwalk, have hotdogs and hit the aquarium, Helena will not misbehave in there.” You put your empty cup on the coffee table– they can make up.”

He gave you a tired smile, knowing he had to head home soon but wanting to talk some more.

“Are you angry at her?” He asks weakly.

“She would’ve hurt Ryan. I figured out she was forcing him to attack when you said things got a little heated, that’s how she dealt with bullies in the past.” you looked him straight in the eyes– I am upset.”

He found a way to touch your hand, giving it a light squeeze.

“Don’t be… I think Ryan would like the aquarium, he’s never been.” He seemed ashamed of that statement.

“Remember when we used to sneak out to Central Park?” You said suddenly with a chirp in your voice.

“Those were long nights.” He dares give you a flirty look.

“No… those handful of times where we went during daytime… ditch the suit… more witnesses, more likely to behave.”

You tried ignoring those sharp fangs, he was so good looking still and it had been so fucking long since you got laid, being forced to remember him, to interact with him, to let him touch you… some people like to be used… Helena had said it best, and in this nice house he bought you, and the nice stuff he got you all around you, you remember what he was trying to get out of you, and that was to play a role.

At the doctor’s office, Helena cried a lot when the doctor took her stitches out, it had taken a day to heal but she was left with a gnarly scar.

“Phantasma” You sit next to her while she eats some ice cream, she really did not like getting the stitches out, the visit had reduced her to an actual little girl, even after her words were incoherent, skipping words as she cried all the way out to the ice cream shop, Helena’s skin was hard not like her fathers but it was near impossible to penetrate it with a needle, forced to proceed without real anesthesia– sounds better than ‘Ghost Girl’, no?”

She looked up.

“Sounds cool. Why?” she sniffed hard.

“Your father did ask about it…”

“Huh?”

“Honey. He told me you figured it out. How?”

She licked her ice cream cone, as you tucked her under your arm. Scooting her closer on the park bench.

“I used Elmo to break into his apartment. I turned us both invisible and I went up there.” You pulled on her ear– ouch!”

“Helena!”

“He’s been following us for weeks!” you let her go– I was curious as to what he was doing… I was suspicious of his intentions, found the paperwork in his office and played stupid for a couple days.” She handed you her slobbered cover ice cream– Is not appropriate for a grown man to be following little girls.”

“You shouldn’t use Elmo like that!”

“You aren’t mad I broke into his house?” She looked perplexed.

“Nah… I could have given you the passcode it's the first thing they gave me when I started work. Don’t involve the kid!” You took a bite– Jesus Helena! You being invisible is hard enough… I don’t want you ending up like Translucent! Guy was so mentally ill.”

“You knew translucent?” her ear perked up.

“He would walk around naked in the bathrooms– I’ll explain to you when you’re older, honey.” you handed the ice cream back, your lips tight under your teeth– I knew your father for three years… So I got to meet some of The Seven. Either way leave the kid alone and for all intents and purposes you never told me about the stalking…”

“You got something in mind?”

“We’re going to play his game. You’re his daughter… so that tower should be yours, no?”

“There’s my older brother to worry about, too.”

“He’s just a little boy, riding thru life with only nepotism as his anchor” You stroke her hair pushing her bangs away from her beautiful eyes– but he’s not you.” You leaned into her ear– you are my daughter.”

Her smile was sickly sweet.

Here you were waiting for him at the entrance of the boardwalk, when you felt a light touch on your shoulder.

He looked uncomfortable and maybe too dressed up for the occasion, you took the lapel of his suit jacket. It was the nicest fabric you’ve touched in your entire life, surprised to see his hair not as gel-up and his eyes hiding behind versace sunnies.

“Did you raid Kendall Roy’s closet? I swear I saw this jacket in season 3.”

“Is a good show.” he laughs looking painfully stiff, his eyes moving rapidly behind his lenses– and yes.”

“Wait, is this actually from the show?”

“I just said yes.”

Your mouth dropped slightly, but you did like the feel of the jacket.

“You’re more Shiv.”

“Not Logan I hope?”

You snorted in horror, your daughter pretended to be confused by his appearance trying not to look at Ryan, who looked like a deer in front of a hummer.

“Are you doing okay, little guy?” You asked, making sure to lift his hat playfully– Ever had a Nathan’s glizzy? Is an institution.”

The kid looked so shy.

“No, I never had one…” He was one bad word away from sobbing.

“Is okay. My arm is all good again” Helena's adult size hoodie had a big enough collar for her to pull down and reveal nothing but a scar– I am not mad at you. It was an accident… Besides, you can’t be a supe if you’re afraid of getting boo-boos.”

Ryan seemed more shaken than anything, but before he could do his best sad little orphan boy impression, Helena took his hand and dragged him forward, telling him that he needed to try Nathan’s before doing anything, rambling about how good they are, and that she couldn’t wait to see the Aquarium.

Both you and Homelander stood a few steps behind as your daughter gave the kid no time to rest.

“She’s always been this pushy?” He whispered into your ear.

“She just found out that’s her brother… She's a tad excited.”

“You had the talk? Without me!?” He looked upset, staring at his kids with a bit of bitterness.

“I was ambushed. I swear to god you need to figure out a weakness with her damn bubble.”

“What's the limit before she runs out of oxygen?” he asks.

“1 minute and 46 seconds is her personal best.” you whispered back.

“What did you tell Helena was happening today?” He wrapped his arm around your waist pulling you close.

“That it was a play-date, to try to mend the situation… after all she instigated it.” You leaned against him tugging on his jacket with a cheeky smile– not whatever you were thinking this was… now… get your hand off my ass, John.”

“I told you. I have a story to sell. Both kids are in the same school, now they can start being friends and she knows I’m her dad. Let’s just skip to the good part.”

“You want to pretend we are dating?” If your teeth could separate and let you talk with ease, you would bite his nose off before finishing your next sentence– Did you run that past your team? Sure I wouldn’t rank higher than Maeve or Starlight in the fake girlfriend department… I think even Taylor would rank better… she did make a great single out of you.”

He cringed at that comment.

“You’ll do great in the fake mother department– The team has concocted something extra juicy, a real page turner. Way above Hallmark channel christmas movies, we are talking award circuit instead.”

You both did that fake little laugh that sounded more like a growl as your kids turned around after spotting the white, green and yellow hot dog restaurant.

As Helena headed to the line, with Ryan in tow. You played your role, Helena would have what she deserves– if he wanted to force you and her into his life, you were going to wrap those chains so tight around his neck, he would forget he ever lived without it.

Your mouth met his for a brief moment, startling him enough that his hand left your hips, he was left stuck in place as you went after the kids.

The breeze tousled his hair, as you looked back at him with a saddened smile.

“I haven’t forgiven you… but I want to give you a second chance… I want to put all those things behind us… if you are going to be here for her– for us.” You whispered from afar out of your kids reach as Helena took your wallet, knowing full well he was listening attentively– I’ve missed you. Even if I don’t want to admit it.”

The seagulls squealed as he took his place beside you, wrapping his arm again around your waist just to kiss you yet again.

The moment Helena saw a fish tank it was game over. All her ‘Wednesday’ facade had melted as she became an over excited amateur marine biologist, giving his eldest no time of rest as she explained as many animals she could to the child, he had learned an awful lot about corals and kelp as they moved from exhibit to exhibit, admittedly Ryan was having fun, hanging out with other kids as school had been a bit difficult, his socialization skills were poor from years of isolation and homeschooling but this was nice.

Homelander could only see a kodak moment ruined by the myriad of The Deep billboards staring at him.

It was a bizarre game of stealth kisses happening behind the kids, he was starving for you, a desire he had put down in the cellar and today he found again, excited to play this game with you.

Wanting to feel your comfort, happy that you took his offer, now he only had to tell Ryan.

As you left for the bathroom he was left alone with the two kids, Ryan fixated on some animals and his mind elsewhere when Helena pulled at his sleeve.

“You look like you want to rip your skin off.”

“I don’t usually wear clothes like this?” he says politely– what about you? Why are you wearing that giant hoodie again? Don’t you own other stuff?”

It was big enough for an adult, her sleeves had been rolled up quite a bit and its length still touched her knees making her appear shorter than she already was, this had been the fifth time he had seen her in this fit, she wore black hoodies most of the times on top of her normal clothes– cheap thrifted clothes and hand-me downs somethign that irked the man; But this ridiculous hoodie seemed to be a favorite. The newest and nicest thing she owned was a pair of A-T Force 1, it pissed him off to watch her wear those shoes– why worship that fat slob when her father was the fucking Homelander! he thought.

“Is really nice… found it in an old box mother had with her while we were living in one of her cousin’s garage.” She stretched her arm urging the man to have a feel of the soft cotton fabric– She didn’t wanna throw it away ‘cuz she could sell it but I ended up wearing it a lot. I like it.”

The fabric was worn down but it was evidently of good quality, he spun the little girl around as he looked at the size tag, only to see the name of the brand… Brunello, his eyes widened as he noted that this hoodie easily cost over 1000 dollars, but as the girl glared at him a light sob escaped his lips as his eyes tingled– this had been his sweater.

Of the few items of clothes he had owned over the years, he knew this was his.

In those secret dates in central park and escapes to Paris and Seoul, where he was forced to hide who he was just so you two could hold hands without causing a scene, he had bought this, you liked it enough to steal it from him from time to time.

Homelander had become John Gillman for you, he had never needed a secret identity before he met you, not even mulling on the idea for long. He only had to be the Homelander, but he had become a mild-mannered executive named Mr. John Gillman, to be with you– forcing himself to wear strange clothes and mingle with lowborn folks, just to hold your hands and kiss you.

This stupid hoodie that he had ordered an intern to buy only to arrive a size too big, that had gone missing years prior, now stood here wrapping his daughter.

“How did you find out about me?” He asks with shaky lips.

“After you showed up at Lucci’s… thought it was weird that you showed up at my house not long before… I suspected you knew my mom, and after she told me that she worked at Vought. Well, I looked at her resume and did some math. I only really began to suspect it after you broke into my house” She raised her chin– you left the window open by two inches, not enough to matter but enough for me to notice as I always leave them close all the way… you left my hairbrush in the sink’s and not the trolley. Why would you touch my hairbrush? Wonder what you could get out of it…”

The little shit turned around to spot her brother still admiring the clover reef while they waited for you.

“I was taking a gamble when I called you a ‘deadbeat’, dad.”

Homelander's heart skipped a beat when her mouth uttered the word, unsure if she was mocking him or otherwise, from her it was hard to tell.

“You don’t want him to know about me, right?” Her voice was quiet, a knot buried itself in her throat.

“What? No!” He said in a panic, getting on one knee to see her eye-to-eye– Helena… I … I want us to be a family, Ryan will understand but I have to wait… he’s not like you or me… he’s… sweet.”

She looked away squishing her little fist, hiding her beautiful kyanite stones behind those long bangs, his hand lifted her hair, trying to peek further into those beautiful skies, feeling the creamy skin under his palm, her warmth as her cheeks turn a new shade of pink.

“You’re my daughter… my blood… I am sorry… I was… I was an asshole for what I did, but I just want to be there for you now… so If I can… you can call me ‘Dad’ if you like.”

His voice quivering as he spoke, she was frail, he could feel it under his touch, how easy it would be for him to hurt her.

Little girls were to be handled with much more care, dainty things they were, she was a peony blooming in his hands, so he had to be soft and strong for her. she rested her cheek against his hand, his so warm and soft, surprised at the way he looked at her-- there was a twinkle of desperation behind his gaze.

She rested until her eyes didn’t sting anymore.

As you left the bathroom, you spotted the curious scene, biting at your lips as your guilt finally catched up to you, you didn’t need it, you would not allow yourself to be harmed but as you saw your daughter play her role, you knew… she would be lost inside the character… She was a lonely child, deprived of you and without him ever in the picture... she had a weakness.

You let them mingle from afar as they walked around towards some river exhibition, while Ryan made his way towards the duo, their hands intertwined as he turned calling for his boy.

For a moment you saw a glimpse of the life you always wanted… Revenge was a nasty game… could you really play it? You wondered as you fixed your clothes.

Before you could say anything, your sight followed a faceless passerby.

A service dog in tow.

The passerby had simply bumped into Helena, the dog had been just close enough, you didn't worry immediately, she had gotten used to dogs and you were certain she had been good and taken her allergy meds.

You were sure.

Helena turned but it was too late.

With a single sneeze the gates had opened.

The walls rumbled, as the pale blue wave of sharp wavering light exploded out of her body.

Everybody swallowed a shared gasp, as the glass began to crack.

taglist: hope y'all like the chapter @fromforeigntofamiliarity @immyowndefender @demodemo909

#Homelander #Homelander x reader #Homelander x you #the boys oc #american royalty #personal #my fic tag #the boys fanfiction #homelander fanfic #homelander x F! Reader #I have so much energy right now and am riding the high.#barely proofread so sorry for any spellign errors

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dollerinna · 8 months ago

Text

I WANT TO F**K YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL .

( black noir x fem supe!reader )

summary: the not-so-innocent things that go on in noir’s head abt you during The Seven meetings (wc: 1.8k)

warnings: MDNI, dub-con, rough p in v, doggy style, primal play themes, size kink, gagging, sobbing, corruption kink, Homelander being a weirdo at the end… just a lil’

first fic on this blog and I lowkey hate it- ughhh sorry if it’s all over the place!

The morning sun cast its golden glow upon the Manhattan skyline as The Seven assembled in their meeting room.

Homelander paced before them, detailing some new initiative he had conceived, but his words rang as emptily as the void behind his eyes. The Deep hung on his every syllable, eager as ever to prove his ass-kissing self with poorly-timed quips. This earned him nothing but a withering side-eye.

A-Train and Maeve listened with feigned interest, checking out of the conversation all but in body. Noir sat apart, idly fidgeting with a pen as his mind wandered. But his attention was drawn not to the usual faces, for there was a new supe among them—you, the latest fresh-faced recruit to their team.

On the surface, you appeared the absolute picture of attention—eyes forward, laser focused on Homelander as he tiresomely outlined the team's objectives.

It was cute, really, how focused the newbies always strived to be. Yet beneath the facade, you were actually anything but so, not when you felt an unseen gaze assessing you, weighing you.

Flicking your eyes discreetly aside, you confirmed a suspicion you could smell from miles away: Noir watching from across the table, his expression shrouded as ever behind the visor of his helmet.

Ugh, talk about creepy.

A subtle flutter of your eyelids shifted your line of sight, choosing to trust that his thousand-yard stare just so casually happen to drift your way and not an attempt to burn his gaze into your very soul.

Besides, what else could the guy possibly think about? Training, orders from Vought, simple pastimes—usually, such painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill thoughts occupied him.

But little did you know in this moment, as he studied your presence from afar, his mental reflections took a turn less… innocent.

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“N-Noir… mmph-… please…”

It wasn’t his doing, he didn’t ask to be plagued with this sickly obsession; but every time he heard your voice, it was as if sweet, smooth-spun sugar had come alive.

An alien lust scorched Noir’s consciousness, catapulting his fevered mind into unfamiliar territory. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sinful thoughts that stubbornly stuck to him like glue. Just the mere notion of ever being responsible for those pretty little sounds was enough for arousal to creep through his veins like a nasty virus, sapping what was left of his crumbling self-control.

Your every whine, your every moan, would be a siren's call that beckoned him to claim you, to strip away your composure until you were utterly, helplessly his. All he craved was to watch the light in your eyes dwindle, to witness your breaths dampening into shallow puffs of air that blanketed your gaze in a veil of fog, gradually muffling you into a stillness even quieter than he was.

And truthfully, it wasn’t a matter of whether you liked it or not.

Noir would ensure his touch left no room for refusal, his grasp iron-hard as he positioned your trembling, naked body on the floor to his liking—face pinned down, ass arched up, just as it should be. Yet even as he held you fast with a palm braced against your sweat-slicked spine, his other hand moved with a surprising tenderness, gently teasing loose and brushing apart the knotted strands of hair clung to your ruddied features.

He imagined the merest of touches would set your blood aflame, rumbling up a ripe groan from your core. “…Oh m-my god… fuck…” words fled your mouth on airless breaths, nearly inaudible but still enough for him to catch. In response, he’d slowly lift a finger to your glistening lips, accompanied by a soundless ‘shh’—a signal for you to behave.

After all, good girls should never cuss.

Large, strong hands would then greedily paw at the lush fat of your ass cheeks, the scratchy textured fabric of his gloves leaving blooms of red across your flesh. Spreading you open, he’d admire the way your juicy, moist folds parted slightly, the aching emptiness within your entrance eliciting an involuntary clenching—your muted moans, trapped in your throat, acting as a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of him.

He liked to think you’d be mere putty in his hands, before he was even close to fucking you.

Noir would take his sweet time exploring you, his curiosity of the human form eclipsing the immediate need to quell a white-hot carnal desire every red-blooded man gets. He was good at rearranging people’s insides, literally, but what if he flipped the script in a much different way?

Experimentally, he’d run the very tip of his gloved finger along the weeping slit of your sex, ghosting ever so lightly over your swollen, hypersensitive clit to collect your slick arousal. Then, without warning, he’d dip an entire digit into your quivering depths, reveling in the way your spongy muscles squeezed and welcomed him in.

Your breath would hitch at the intrusion, skin prickling with a visceral need as you eagerly shoved your rear back against his palm, craving more. However, just as swiftly, he would withdraw his hand, bringing it close to his face to observe it covered in your juices, inspecting how the slimy, milky-white essence connected a trail between his fingers.

Who knew light fondling and agonizing silence was all the foreplay you needed? (or at least, in Noir’s fanciful pornographic depictions of you)

Once done playing with his food, he’d drag his knees closer to your body, his hips flush against your ass, leaving your peripheral vision filled with nothing but his imposing, darkly-clad figure dwarfing your own. Without hesitation, he’d reach down to remove the codpiece off him, freeing his hefty cock which sprang forth in the air, where it stood rock-hard, veiny, and impossibly large.

Wrapping a hand around himself, the thickly-roped, buzzing veins were betrayed by each gritty pull of his glove, drawing a guttural grunt from behind his balaclava. He’d guide his erection between your warm folds, the engorged ridge of his tip prodding against your bundle of nerves, sending electric jolts of pleasure to crackle through your core, before he began to sheathe himself inside you with a push that drove him home.

With a grip possessive and firm around your waist, Noir quickly fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm of sturdy pushes and pulls. Each punishing collision of your bodies was answered by the lewd, rapid sounds of skin-on-skin, making damn sure you felt every single inch of him as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

He’d only hope to see you struggle taking him all in, envisioning how the sheer scale of his size forced the very air out from your gasping lungs.

“P-Please Noir!… ngh-… my body can’t handle this much,” your once-lovely voice now ragged and frail, scraping sobs grinding your vocal cords near silence as you churned and coiled like a fawn caught in the clutches of a big, bad wolf. “Be gentle, I’m begging you!—-” You choked out weakly, bordering on a soft, pitiful whine.

Expectantly, a weighted silence followed suit from Noir. In his typical, unsparing fashion, he slipped a glove from his hand, jamming it into your mouth and effectively gagging you into silence, as if to say—pipe down, be a good girl, and take my cock like you’re supposed to.

Even without a single word uttered by him, it worked like absolute fucking magic.

Your torso would practically collapse under the onslaught, wobbly limbs giving way as you let Noir use your arched up, offering form like a personal fleshlight. His hips would retract further back in an excruciating slowness, simply marveling at your wetness coating the base of his member like a second skin, only to slam back into you with raw vigor.

Your tight, gummy walls would be offered absolutely no time to adjust to the relentless invasion of his girth, the sheer thickness of his cock forcefully stretching out your cunt to shape him, to the point it felt like he was trying to split you into two.

He’d yank your flexing thighs back to meet his brutal series of thrusts, burying himself into you to the very tilt as the fleshy head of his cock kissed your cervix, igniting a searing white bolt of static to lance through your vision, momentarily fracturing it.

The all-consuming, dizzying sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, toppling your senses and wrenching a strangled sob out from your slack jaw once more. This earned you another biting touch from Noir’s thumbs pressed into your sides, as if seeking to wring every gasp out of your chest, to hear your moans rattle through your ribcage.

However even your rawest cries were swiftly muffled, swallowed by the balled-up glove shoved roughly between your teeth, which reduced you to nothing more than a gagging, pleasure-drunk whore for him to claim.

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Meanwhile…

“Welp, that about covers it for today,” Homelander announced with a thunderous clap, loud enough for it to ring through Noir’s ears and bring him back to the present.

Slowly, Noir spun his head back towards Homelander, who had just finished addressing the team while his own thoughts drifted to places where even the pearly gates of heaven wouldn't give him the time of day.

“Now shoo- and no more sloppy behavior. I’ll be keeping an eye on each and every one of you.” Homelander dismissed them with a casual wave and a chuckle laced with another one of his thinly veiled threats.

As everyone, including little-miss-oblivious-you, got up to leave the meeting room, Homelander sauntered over to Noir, heartily slapping a heavy hand onto his back. “Earth to Noir! I know that look—thoughts a million miles away behind that sphinx-like mask of yours,” giving a sly little shrug, he slanted a meaningful look towards Noir’s codpiece. “But methinks, someone here isn’t as impenetrable as I thought…” A thin wry smile played his lips, a subtle hint at his x-ray vision allowing him to see a particular something-something of Noir’s that was currently just as hard as his body armor.

“It might do you good to line that suit with zinc. Wouldn't want any unwanted eyes peeking where they shouldn’t, do we?" An amused exhale, part sigh part snicker, slipped out of Homelander as his gaze swept over Noir once more.

True to form, all he received in turn was Noir’s standard muteness, as soundless as a grave.

Homelander eased the quiet with a huffed laugh, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his head in playful study of Noir. "But don't worry," he added with a knowing smirk, "it happens to the best of us. But do try to keep your head in the game! And not with your other one, ‘kay buddy?” Homelander jested in mock-reproach as he landed one last waggish, firm slap between Noir's shoulders, flashing his gleaming white yet eerily pointed grin.

Noir remained statue still, no hint of feeling betrayed by his rigid posture despite the toe-curling awkwardness of the encounter, or perhaps he'd yet to fully realize Homelander had peered within and seen his aching, raging hard-on behind the suit's facade.

Noir silently watched Homelander shoot two playful finger guns, his cape swirled shut behind him before leaving the room.

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Pssst- Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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Apologies if there are any grammatical errors here, cuz I’m alr so done with this fic 😭😭😭

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